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FOUNDATIONS ; 

OE, 

Castles in the Am. 


■BY 

y 

ROSE PORTER, 

»» ' 

Auteoe of “ Summer Driftwood for the Winter Fire.” 



NEW YORK: 


ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO., 

770 Broadway, cor. Oth Street. 

/ 





« 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, hy 
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO., 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


ROBERT RUTTER, 
BINDER. 

B4 BEEKMAN STREET, 

N. Y. 


EDWARD 0. JENKINS. 
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER, 
NO. 20 N. WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. 


X 


PART I. 

r 


1 

e • 




4 


‘‘ For we are hasty huilders, incomplete ; 

Our Master follows after, far more slow 
And far more sure than we, for frost, and heat, 
And winds that breathe, and waters in their floui. 
Work with Him silently'* 



FOUNDATIONS ; 


OR, 


CASTLES IN THE AIR. 


CHAPTER 1. 

HERE had been a shower in the af- 



1 ternoon, but towards sunset the clouds 
lifted, and a flood of golden light lit up the 
valley, changing into rosy hues as the sun 
crept nearer the mountain peaks, behind 
which it would so soon hide. Every mo- 
ment, a new glory and power it seemed to 
catch, sending its rays far over towards the 
eastern horizon, where the rain clouds still 
lingered; kissing the falling drops into 
brightness, till the dark clouds were arched 
with rainbow promise. Then the sun, it was 


( 5 ) 


6 


FOUNDATIONS. 


gone ; only the outline of mountain blue — 
only the soft and tender light in the western 
sky, changing all the time into more shad- 
owy tints, were left. And the rainbow, its 
colors too, had gone out. The clouds were 
heav)?" and dark again. 

A little group had gathered in the porch 
of the old stone farm-house, to watch the 
sunset. Simple country folk they were — 
a mother and her children ; but it is with 
their lives, chiefly, our story is interwoven ; 
for it is but a simple story — only the old 
tale that is lived over every day — of a moth- 
er’s love — patient and steadfast; of home 
leaving, and home coming — of sorrow anjd 
joy — of temptation and victory. 

One by one the family separated, as the 
twilight faded, till only the mother and her 
son were left, standing alone in the dim 
light of the ending day. Long they were 
silent ; then the young man spoke (for Alfred 
Merwin was no longer a boy, the. day just 
past had filled out the number of nineteen 
years that had come and gone since his 


FOUNDATIONS. 


7 

life began) : ‘‘ Do n’t be afraid to trust nxe, 
mother; I will strive to be all you want.” 
Man though he was, the tears choked his 
words, and the tall youth laid his head on 
his mother’s shoulder, weeping like a child. 
His mother did not reply for a little while, 
but gently she took his hand in hers, and 
mother and son sat down together on 
the old stone step and mingled their 
tears. 

The step worn by so many passers — the 
footfall of little children — the tread of weary 
age — the bounding step of youth — the 
measured tread of sober middle age — the 
door-step of the homestead, it sings a low 
wordless undertone song, that, breathed into 
sound, would catch something of the pathos 
of the heart-touching words England’s poet 
uttered, when he tells : 

“ The tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me.” 

Such different tears they were! * The 
mother’s fell like baptismal drops, for every 


8 


FOUNDATIONS. 


tear found birth in a prayer. The son’s, 
from a restless, eager heart. 

She was a simple woman, Mrs. Merwin. 
Her life experience did not stretch far beyond 
the confines of the village. Mountains to 
westward, river to eastward, they bounded 
all of event, all of personal knowledge, she 
possessed of the outside w orld. A country 
girl reared, among the hills, loving from 
childhood Herbert Merwin, the minister^’s 
son, with a trustful content in being loved 
by him. Her courtship days had been as 
free from excitement as the life behind them. 
No startling romance could she picture, 
only in her Bible there lay a faded leaf or 
two, beginning to be yellow with time now ; 
and sometimes of a quiet Sabbath afternoon 
she would tell ‘Hhe children” of her young 
days, and point, always with a smile, (unlike 
any other smile that ever shone on their 
mother’s face, even the very youngest of 
them knew,) to the path by the brook-side 
or the wood road, out toward the moun- 
tains, and her voice was very soft and gen- 


FOTJNDATlOm. 


9 


tie, when she said, It was there your fath- 
er gathered this, that spring before we 
were married or, “ There we found these 
flowers, long years ago and the children 
held the faded flowers tenderly, while in 
the mother’s eyes a far-off look came. 
Sometimes, too, when the summer evenings 
were longest, all together they would go 
through the pasture meadow, beyond the 
belt of pines that divided the farm land 
from the road way, to a little enclosure, 
sheltered from the scorching rays of the sun 
in summer, and protected from the winter’s , 
storm by the overhanging boughs of the 
forest trees — hedged in by wild roses and 
clematis — planted with the dear old time” 
garden • flowers — snow drops and violets, 
that bloomed when winter began to woo 
the spring — lilacs and lilies, as the spring 
melted into summer; of summer blossoms 
there was no lack ; for the autumn, the late 
coming chrysanthemums, with their yellow 
and crimson flowers, and in the winter, 
when the flowers shut their eyes and went 


10 


FOUNDATIONS. 


to sleep, the pure snow fell like a trailing 
cloud from heaven, and the sunlight stole, 
in flickering smiles, through the evergreen 
boughs, tracing promises on the white stone 
in golden letters, for there was a white stone 
there — a mound of earth — and beside it 
a little mound, such a very little mound, 
marked by no stone, only a cross, cut by 
the father’s hand, for he did not go home 
for a twelvemonth after the baby. 

These were the household graves. And 
about that quiet place — about the flowers 
. in her Bible — a little dress — a tiny pair of 
shoes — a broken toy — a golden ringlet — a 
lock of dark hair — all of romance or poetry 
the world ever caught, as belonging to Mrs. 
Merwin’s life, lingered. And yet, her heart 
sang its own songs — some sweet — ^some 
sad. What heart does not ? 

Her children knew her love — they knew 
her prayers were constant for them ; but as 
they grew out of childhood, something of 
reserve kept their mother often silent. It 
is wont to be thus with some women ; 


FOXmBATIONS. 


II 


when love is strongest, almost with a pain 
do they put it into sounding words. So the 
last night of Alfred’s stay at home had come, 
and still unspoken were the longings that 
filled his mother’s heart. No one, except 
perhaps Mary, the eldest daughter, guessed 
the struggle it had cost Mrs. Merwin to 
give her consent to the urgent letters, his 
father’s only brother, a wealthy merchant, 
had sent, offering Alfred a situation as clerk 
in his office. But the time came when the 
mother yielded ; to-morrow he was to go 
forth — to sail down the river, beyond the 
sheltering mountain-peaks — ^to begin life in 
the city. And there they sat together — that 
quiet woman and the young man. 

Into her soul the whisper of the day’s 
storm — the glory of the sunset brightness, 
the significance of the eastern rainbow 
promise, stole, and, all unconsciously to 
herself, these mute interpreters of her 
heart’s thoughts gave power, and clothed 
with tender beauty the words she uttered ; 
and yet, though their influence shone 


12 


FOUNDATIONS. 


through her language, its inspired earnest- 
ness was caught from the silent up-lifting 
of her soul heavenward. Words she said, 
of loving warning — tender words of en- 
treaty, pointing to the only safety — the only 
succor in temptation — Christ — “ Who was 
tempted in all points, and, in that He suf- 
fered, being tempted. He is able to succor 
them that are tempted.” 

Alfred hardly recognized his usually 
quiet mother, listening to the outpouring 
of her soul’s desire for him. After her 
words, they were silent again for a little 
while, till, in her wonted voice, Mrs. Mer- 
win said, “ Now my boy, we will go in,” and 
she kissed his forehead, adding, “Are all 
your good-byes said, Alfred ?” So calm was 
her tone, no one could have detected the 
yearning heart it concealed. “ Yes, mother, 
all but one. I promised Mattie I would go 
round this evening. You will love Mattie, 
mother, for my sake;” and again Alfred’s 
voice was tremulous. “ For your sake and 
her own Alfred. Are you going now?” 


FOUNDATlOm, 


13 


Yes, tell the girls I v/ill be home soon 
and, with one more kiss, the young man 
passed hastily down the garden walk, 
through the little gate, and up the lane, 
which was almost dark now. Standing in 
the door-way, his mother watched him, till 
the outline of his figure was lost in the twi- 
light gloom. Then her head was bowed. 
But — only God knows a mother’s prayer. 

When quite out of sight, Alfred paused 
and leaned against the stone wall which 
stretched along by the road-side. Over him 
came the words of his mother ; the echo of 
her voice still lingered so near to him. 
Strong resolves, earnest purposes, were 
struggling in his soul as he stood there. 

He never forgot that evening — long years 
afterward, the thought of it would come 
to him, stirred into warmth and life by some 
apparently trivial thing. The sound of the 
crickets and the katydids — the sweet -odor 
of the pine woods — the cool, damp breath 
of the swamp lands he passed just before 
he came to Mattie’s home — his mother’s 


2 


14 


FOUNDATIONS. 


voice — the touch of her hand upon his fore- 
head — thoughts of Mattie, too — trusting 
little Mattie, a young girl then. Strangely 
these memories blended in with the dull, 
heavy clouds, the rainbow and the sunset. 
Overlaid by much of pleasure — much of 
pain — disappointment and hope — feeble 
effort for the right, failure and weakness — 
never out of his heart did the memory of 
that twilight fade — never out of his life 
passed the knowledge of his mother’s love. 





CHAPTER 11. 

I T was quite dark when Alfred reached 
the red house at the end of the lane, 
and not till Mattie spoke, did he see her, 
leaning against the great elm-tree, down by 
the gate, almost hidden by the gloom. The 
far-spreading branches of the tree stretched 
over the porch, and when the wind was 
high, were swayed back and forth as far as 
the window in Mattie’s little room. This 
elm-tree was the pride of Mr. Wilson 
(Mattie’s father) ; he never tired telling its 
circumference and pointing out its beauties, 
always ending with the story, which the 
neighbors well knew, of how it was plant- 

(15) 


i6 


FOUND ATlOm. 


ed years ago, by his grandfather, when the 

town of H was a settlement of but 

three or four houses. “No tree like the 
elm,’' he would add ; and then Mattie’s 
mother, a cheerful-tempered woman, ever 
claimed her say in favor of the forest trees 
— the pine, cedar and hemlock, liking them 
best, as she said, “ because they were so 
intimate and friendly, alwa)’S making one 
think of some great loving family.” When 
her husband shook his head she would ask 
him “ Avhat the roots meant, by twisting in 
and out so, one with the other — what the 
massive ever-green boughs meant by inter- 
locking their out-spreading branches, if it 
were not love and friendship.” If he still 
looked incredulous, she would push her 
question further, and want to know why the 
“slender tops, so close against the sky” 
bent and touched one another, when the 
wind was nothing more than a breeze, if it 
were not their way of kissing! Though her 
argument was familiar, it always silenced 
Mr. Wilson, and made him say, “Well, 


FOUNDATIONS. 


17 

well, little woman, you have got the best 
of me” — it always sent him off to his plow, 
or hay-field, whistling, and the tune was 
ever the same, “ Home, sweet Home.” All 
this was because in his heart there was a 
little picture — a tender little spot, from 
which the bright colors never faded. The 
memory of an autumn day, long ago by- 
gone — a cloudless day — a merry party start- 
ing for a chestnutting frolic, the golden 
sunshine up on the hills, and the softened 
light down in the pine woods, over toward 
Dominie Merwin’s house ; an awkward, 
overgrown young man ; a laughing, rosy- 
cheeked girl ; these were the memories that 
made his heart’s picture, and that had touch- 
ed them with perpetual light ever since that 
day, because of a questioning voice which 
asked why the pine-trees grew so near 
together. Was it that they loved each other 
so well ?” And then — but what need of tell- 
ing over again the old well-known story. 

Something had wakened its echoes very 
loudly in Mr. Wilson’s heart as he stood in 


1 3 FOUNDATIONS. 

the doorway, for over his face came a broad 
smile as his wife called, “ Where is Mattie ? 
The child should not stay out so late ; the 
evenings are growing damp and chilly.” 
Then, comfort-loving woman as she was, 
she stirred the wood fire, already burning 
brightly, till it sent forth a more ruddy, 
sparkling blaze, listening meanwhile to 
her husband’s reply, Tut, tut, she’ll take 
no cold this night ; let the child stay.” When 
Mrs. Wilson joined him she saw the smile, 
for the fire lit up the door-way, and then 
the little woman put her hand on his arm 
and smiled too, right up into the honest, 
true hearted eyes, looking down into hers, 
and whispered, It is the chestnutting time 
of year, John.” Simple people though they 
were, they understood one another, for their 
hearts’ music was the same. 

All this time Mattie was by the garden 
gate, at first, watching and wondering why 
Alfred delayed his coming, for, in that quiet 
country village, evening meant sundown, 
and he had promised he would come in the 


FOmDATIOm. 


19 

evening. Still he was not there, though 
the long shadows of the early twilight had 
lost themselves one in the other; though 
the glow in the sky had faded quite away, 
and the moon was just a silvery crescent 
thing of hope, not really light-giving yet. 
And then, Mattie was glad, for though her 
bright eyes could not fathom the darkness 
of the sheltered way, her listening ear caught 
the sound of Alfred’s approaching footsteps. 

It is a difficult task to describe Mattie. 
No one would ever have called her beauti- 
ful, though a sweet charm was in her every 
look and motion, for nature had been very 
bountiful in her gifts to this young girl. 
All unlearned as she was in the finishing 
touches of city lif^ and boarding-school cul- 
ture, her manners were not wanting in ease 
and grace — the sweetness of innocence — the 
calm simplicity of a pure true heart ; these 
were Mattie’s charms. And, just by way of 
parenthesis, that any reader may ^^skip,” 
without losing one thread of our story’pwill 
we copy the lines of Hood’s, which picture 


20 


FOUNDATIONS. 


little Mattie, in * her young gladness, as 
first we knew her : 

She stood high breast amid the corn, 

Clasp’d by the golden light of morn. 

Like the sweet-heart of the sun, 

Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

‘‘ On her cheek an autumn flush, 

Deeply ripen’d, — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 

Like red poppies grown with corn. 

“ Round her eyes her tresses fell. 

Which were blackest none could tell. 

But long lashes veil’d a light, 

That had else been all too bright. 

“ And her hat, with shady brim. 

Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 

Thus she stood amid the stooks. 

Praising God with swee^st looks.” 

Alfred was not the only one who detected 
“the charm of her presence.” His voice 
grew softer than its wonted tone as he re- 
plied to her greeting question, “ Did you 
see it, Alfred ?” “ See what, Mattie?” “Why, 
the sunset and the rainbow. I thought 
them sent for you.” 


FOUNDATIONS. 


21 


Every one, who knows with familiarity 
the lives of “ country people,” and the sub- 
tle influence of nature on the opening heart 
and mind of those reared amid great nat- 
ural grandeur and beauty, will recognize 
the undertone poetry which runs, like the 
tide of a river, through all after years of ' 
their lives, ebbing and flowing, something 
as their days come and go, affecting the in- 
ternal and the eternal by the symbolism of 
external things. 

Those who deal most in words, (whether 
they be uttered by the voice, or traced by 
the pen,) and who win the most abiding 
place in the hearts of men, are those who 
use them to make beautiful and vivid pic- 
tures* for us ; and is not the secret of Nat- 
ure’s great power, because it is ever leading 
us to pictures, infinite in number and variety, 
among the “ mountains and plains of the 
earth, in the clouds and stars of the sky ?’ ’ 
Yet, these alone ^ are, like the winter tree, 
stretching leafless branches out into the air, 
waiting to be vivified into fresh green life 


22 


FOmDATIONS. 


by the upwelling sap, cold and desolate, till 
warmed into life by human fellowship, by 
thoughts of home, of loving fathers and mo- 
thers, of glad-hearted children, brave men 
and noble women, who have forgotten self 
in love and sacrifice. Even after the pos- 
session of these memories, as the tree is still 
waiting for the buds to unfold into leaf and 
blossom, ere its beauty is complete, the 
heart is waiting to be touched into lasting 
life by looking beyond the visible, beyond 
the images, bowing in spirit and in truth,” 
in worship of Christ, the revealed and self- 
revealing God. 

This mystical influence of Nature strongly 
pervaded Mattie’s inward life, giving color- 
ing to the expression of her thoughts, as 
it did to Mrs. Merwin’s, though they were 
so very different, for Mattie was outspoken 
and joyful, like her mother, seeing every- 
thing in rosy hues, while Mrs. Merwin, even 
from girlhood, had looked through sober 
tints. 

That evening hour was a fitting time for 


FOUNDATIOm. 


23 


Alfred and Mattie to say farewell, such a 
tenderness was about everything ; the very 
dimness was holy and soothing ; no wonder 
their voices were low and gentle; and it 
was an easy thing for Mattie to tell the 
thoughts that stirred her young heart. 
They hardly knew how well they loved 
one another, for their love had grown with 
their years, and Alfred had made part of 
Mattie’s dreams, even from childhood, all 
along the way her girlhood had journeyed ; 
while to Alfredj however dazzling his hopes 
for the future, however aspiring his am- 
bition, visions of Mattie’s gladness always 
were blended in with the sweetness of the 
coveted success. There was no need to put 
it into words, and Alfred was silent as he 
listened to Mattie’s eager prophecies for 
him. Yes, Alfred,” she exclaimed, I 
know it was sent as a sign for you, all the 
beautiful golden light over toward the sun- 
set place, just like the crown of success that 
will come to you when life has crept on to 
the west. The rainbow, that was in the 


24 


FOUIWATIONS. 


east, where you are now, it made my heart 
shiver, the clouds were so heavy and dark 
there. Do you think they meant the strug- 
gles you are to have in your young days?” 
And then, with the quick change of a na- 
ture, hopeful like Mattie’s, all the sadness 
was gone from her voice, as she added, 
‘‘ But, the rainbow, it was made of the very 
brightest colors, and if that span your 
clouds, we will not mind the storms, will 
we, Alfred ?” 

Thus they talked, just standing, as they 
were, on the threshold of life, building their 
castles for the future. But they built them 
in the air, those castles, made of such beau- 
tiful jewels, only so fragile, for they built 
with hopes and dreams. 

Not till the village clock struck nine did 
the parting -time come, and then Mattie 
said, it was not to be a good-by, “ for up in 
the morning I will be, Alfred, down in the 
meadow-lot, where I can see you passing, 
and I will call out my good-by in the morn- 
ing, not say it in the evening.” 


FOUNDATIONS, 


25 

Very kind were the farewell words of 
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, and almost as though 
he had caught something of Alfred and 
Mattie’s talk, Farmer Wilson added to his 
hearty God bless you,” Remember, my 
lad, on the foundation on which you be- 
gin this new life will depend the future.” 
Walking home, Alfred thought for a min- 
ute of Mr. Wilson’s words, and their real 
meaning, “but the castle in the air” he 
and Mattie had been building, it was so 
much more tempting than the structure of 
hard labor and steady work, which he knew 
the farmer meant, he overlaid his advice 
with bright fancies, just as he had done his 
mother’s words, which pointed him, not to 
a castle, but to the Corner stoneC 



3 



CHAPTER III. 

A FLOOD of light from the windows in 
the' sitting-room shone out as Alfred 
approached the house. Mary had left the 
blinds open, because, as she said, it will 
look cheerful to Alfred when he comes 
home and, for the same reason, Joe (the 
man - of - all - work) lit the logs which had 
been drying all summer in the wide open- 
hearted fire-place, apologizing, as he did so, 
for acting contrary to his oft - expressed 
opinion, “ that no one needed a fire in the 
sitting-room short of October,” by saying. 
Ye see Master Alfred likes the looks of a 
blaze, and after the rain I reckon a heating 

(26) 


FOUNDATIONS. 


27 

will do the old house good. Mrs. Merwin 
smiled and replied, Very well, Joe.” 

Alfred stood for a minute or two outside, 
looking into the room, trying to persuade 
himself it was just to have a good glimpse 
of them all, and not heart-sinking at the 
thought of the morrow, which made him 
shrink from going in. 

It was such a comfortable, cheerful room, 
and made so pleasant a picture, framed in 
by the window-casement, possessing, as it 
did, that peculiar charm which has stolen 
away so sadly from the great houses of the 
present day, perhaps, because the spirit 
of home ” is lost in wandering from room 
to room, sojourning a little while in one, 
then in another, while, in ‘^old-fashioned 
times,” its abiding-place was there in the 
sitting-room. 

Never had home seemed dearer to Al- 
fred than it did that night. There sat his 
mother, on her little low chair, busy with 
“ last stitches ” for him, he knew. Mary was 
kneeling down by his trunk, carefully lay- 


28 


FOTTNDATIOm. 


ing in piece after piece of the neatly-folded 
clothes. On the other end of the lounge 
lay Bertie’s books and cap, where he had 
tossed them on coming in from school. 
Little Bessie’s broken doll, tucked away 
snugly for the night, in the tiny bedstead 
he had made, was standing in the corner she 
always called hers. Gertrude was leaning 
over the table, with flushed face, and eager, 
trembling fingers, finishing a little sketch 
of the dear home, for ‘‘ Alfred,” that he 
might hang it in his new room, where, 
every morning,^ he could see it. The 
little drawing, to cultured eyes, would 
have looked rough enough, but the lack 
of perspective, the too heavy strokes here, 
the too light there, did not mar its beau- 
ty to those loving gazers. “ It must be 
good,” Mary said, “for even baby Bessie 
calls it ‘ our house,’ and old Margaret, when 
I showed it to her, exclaimed, ‘Why, do 
tell — that’s this ’er place. Miss Gertrude has 
put on to paper.’ ” As if to give more com- 
fort to the scene. Rover, the dog, had crept 


FOUNDATIONS. 


29 

in and stretched himself before the fire ; 
the kitchen door had been left open, and 
through it Alfred caught a glimpse of Joe 
busy shelling corn, and of old Margaret, 
going in and out of the store-room, “ set- 
ting the cakes to rise for Master Alfred’s 
breakfast,” he could almost hear her say. 
The home look of it overcame him ; the 
dreary sense of going away and ceasing to 
be in it all. It was this that made him 
push the hair from his forehead, draw him- 
self up to his full height, and open the door 
hastily. His mother caught the action, and 
the look on his face, which he so resolutely 
tried to hide ; so did Mary ; but, with the 
ready tact of women, they seemed unob- 
serving, and talked of surface subjects, 
while each one knew the deep underlying 
thoughts of the other. Has it cleared oft', 
Alfred ? Will it be a fine day to-morrow? 
Are the stars shining?” All these common- 
place questions they asked. By and by 
Mrs. Merwin put away her sewing, and 
wandered about the room restlessly, shut- 
s' 


30 


FOUNDATIOm 


ting the blinds for the night, hanging up 
Bertie’s cap and laying away his school- 
books. Meanwhile, Mary called Alfred to 
tell him where to find one thing and an- 
other, when he opened his trunk, saying, 

Mother knows all about the tray, for she 
packed that,” “Yes, my son,” said Mrs. 
Merwin, joining them, “ here you will find 
your Sunday suit and some other little 
things you may need ;” and, spite her ef- 
forts, Mrs. Merwin’s voice grew tremulous. 
It was such a hard thing, this first going 
away from home. No wonder the pain 
of it would creep out, though they tried so 
bravely to seem cheerful. “ It is late, and 
we must be up early in the morning. Ger- 
trude, call Joe and Margaret ; we will read 
now,” said Mrs. Merwin. 

The Bible mark for that evening’s Scrip- 
ture pointed to Luke, 15th chapter, but al- 
most hastily, as though the spirit-meaning 
of the parable was shrouded in the visible 
picture of the son a prodigal, Mrs. Mer- 
win turned the leaves backward, and read 


FOXmBATIONS. 


31 

from Matthew 7th chapter, pausing, when 
she came to the 24th verse, to say, Do not 
forget, my children, as we build so will our 
future be;” then she finished the chapter, 
but ere closing the Bible she read the one 
verse, from Corinthians, — “ Other found- 
ation can no man lay, than that which is 
laid — Christ.” 

The girls wondered at her selection, but 
Alfred knew why his mother chose as she 
did. 

With the shadow of the morrow’s parting 
heavy on their hearts, the good- night kisses 
were silently given by sisters and brother ; 
only the mother lingered for one more 
word alone with her son. 

Ere the clock struck again, the lights 
which had shone with cheerful brightness 
from the windows of the old farm-house, 
had gone out, and unbroken darkness set- 
tled down over the valley, as it had done 
over the village an hour ago. Still, the gen- 
tle and sweet night-friend. Sleep, strange- 
ly delayed his coming, at least to those 


32 


FOUNDATIONS. 


with whom our story has to do ; but if the 
old belief be true, that “ good thoughts ” 
are the whisper of the unseen band of min- 
istering spirits, then very lovingly was Mrs. 
Merwin surrounded, for while she could 
not sleep, thoughts many and prayerful, 
filled her heart ; earnest pleadings that her 
children might indeed build on the Rock ; 
special pleadings for the one going from 
the shelter of home. , In answer to her pray- 
er, came the comfort-promise, “ I will never 
leave thee nor forsake thee that was her 
foundation. The abiding presence of the 
Holy Spirit, it was the secret to that 
quiet woman of the grace sufficient,” 
of the “strength made perfect in weak- 
ness.” 

Mary, in her little room across the hall, 
lay wide awake, too, thinking of Alfred and 
the future before him, planning for the time 
when he would return, with a thrill of plea- 
sure which allayed the pain of his going 
away. Gertrude, the “dreamer” of the 
family, had her visions, also, of a bright 


FOUNDATIOm. 


33 

some day and so7ne where, of which Alfred 
would be the hero. 

Alfred’s night was restless and disturbed ; 
tired from the excitements of the day, he 
slept a dull heavy sleep at times, then wak- 
ed suddenly, to fall into fitful slumber, 
broken by strange dreams. Once he thought 
himself climbing a rugged mountain p^th, 
striving to reach the rainbow, which arched 
its summit; but, ever as he neared the 
thing of bright color, it slipped beyond 
his reach, and swung away from him out 
into airy space. Then, he was falling from 
a great height, and Mattie’s voice was call- 
ing him ; unrefreshed he awoke again, and 
wished the morning would come. 

Little Mattie, over in the red house, she 
could not sleep either. The talk with Al- 
fred, and the near approach of parting from 
him (the first parting Mattie had ever 
known), kept her wakeful. Long she lay 
with wide-open eyes, looking at a little star, 
so far off, the dim radiance of which she 
caught through the window pane. She 


24 FOUNDATION^ 

wondered so, what the stars really were ; 
they seemed such kind, mild little lights, 
surely they must be angels looking down, 
even though astronomers did make them 
out such wonderful orbs ; and then she 
wondered whether up there, in the beauti- 
ful ocean of blue, all day long glorying in 
the* sunlight, and at night not losing the 
golden brightness caught from its beams, 
the stars ever were sorry, ever felt lonely ; 
whether they were glad when the clouds 
came, and shut them all away from even 
looking down on the trouble of the world 
below. Then Mattie laughed at herself for 
such childish fancies, and began to think of 
other things (just as childish, had she but 
known). 

Lying awake made Mattie restless, and 
she hearkened, almost impatiently, to the 
low voices of her father and mother in the 
next room, wondering why they talked so 
late into the night. “ I hardly know wh}^,” 
said Mr. Wilson, ‘‘ but even though Alfred 
is a noble fellow, there is something about 


FOUNDATIONS. 


35 

him that makes me uneasy. I hope he 
never will cause his mother disappointment, 
nor our little Mattie either.” 

He is young yet,” answered cheerful 
Mrs. Wilson, but he will never stray far 
from the right path, I am thinking, after 
such a home training as he has had.” 

“ That don’t always tell,” replied Mr. 
Wilson ; there’s Henry Lee, what a bring- 
ing up he had, and who would think it 
now?” 

“ But the end is not yet, husband,” whis- 
pered Mrs. Wilson. 

“ At any rate, he knows where the secret 
of well-doing is to be found,” said farmer 
Wilson, as he reached his hand across the 
little table, taking up the Bible to read the 
chapter together, as had been their custom 
for years. 

At first it had cost him a hard struggle 
to confess Christ thus, even before the one 
he loved best on earth, but that time had 
long since passed, and now, the half hour 
of prayer and reading together was looked 


26 FOUNDATIONS. 

forward to as a time of rest and refresh- 
ment, whatever the cares and toils of the 
day might have been. 

By and by silence was unbroken, not 
only in the stone house, but in Mattie’s 
home, too ; and peacefully the night waned 
toward the morning. 




CHAPTER IV. 

H alf an hour before sunrise, the 
Merwin family were all astir. Old 
Margaret, bustling about the kitchen, pre- 
pared” as she told Joe afterwards, the very 
comfortablest breakfast ; just the things 
Master Alfred set most store by, but scarce 
a mouthful did he touch.” Joe, out in the 
stable, where it was so dark he needed the 
light of a lantern to see how to harness 
Jem (the old black horse), talked to him- 
self over his work by way of encourage- 
ment, saying, “ It ’s your young master you 
are going to carry over the fust bit of the 
road to fortin.” 


4 


( 37 ) 



38 


FOUNDATIONS. 


In the sitting room, Mrs. Merwin moved 
about with a peaceful, calm look on her 
face, reflected from her communing in the 
night, occupied with a mother’s thoughtful 
care over the always remaining “ little 
things” that cannot be done till the hour of 
departure. Mary busied herself with Al- 
fred’s lunch, insisting that room must be 
found in the already well-filled bag, for one 
more package of sandwiches and seed cakes. 
Gertrude carried his overcoat (the new 
one, which had caused such pride and satis- 
faction to the village tailor), into the kitchen 
to warm it before the fire, meeting Alfred’s 
remonstrance with the assurance, “ It is so 
chilly out.” Bertie wandered from one to 
another, wanting to help ; and little Bessie, 
the darling of them all, the golden-haired 
wee sister, who came to them one stormy 
March night, five years ago now (just be- 
fore that saddest parting ever they had 
known — just before their father was carried 
silently from his earthly home), crept up 
into Alfred’s lap, and nestled her curly 


FOUNDATIONS. 


39 

% 

head on his shoulder, thinking, in her child- 
ish ignorance, thus to comfort him, while 
all the time she was making it so much 
harder for him to go away. 

But why dwell on the leave-taking long- 
er ; every one, almost, knows what parting 
means ; what it is to go from home for the 
the first time, even when return is thought 
of as no farther off than autumn from 
spring. 

When the sun rose bright and clear after 
yesterday’s storm, the farewells had been 
said, the blessing and care of the Heavenly 
Father asked, and Alfred Merwin had gone 
forth, closely followed by the loving hearts 
left behind. “ Gone to make his own way in 
the world that was what old Margaret 
said ; but his' mother answered, ‘‘ God 
grant, Margaret, he may commit his own 
way to the Lord’s way ; then my boy is 
safe.” 

In the meadow-lot, which was separated 
from the road by the rapid water of the 
brook, whose starting place was up among 


40 


FOUNDATlOm. 


the mountains, stood little Mattie, calling 
in her sweet musical voice, the farewell 
words she could not say mid the evening 
shadows, mingling a good-bye with a good- 
morning greeting ; and Alfred sent, in his 
strong voice an answering farewell back 
to her. It was all over in a moment, for 
the road, just there made a sudden turn, 
and Mattie and home were shut away from 
Alfrexl. 

“ A good omen, I call that ’er,” said Joe ; 
“ Miss Mattie a standing there in the sun- 
shine as ye passed.” Poor little Mattie, if 
Joe could have stolen one peep through the 
hill-side which hid her from them, he would 
have found the smile of the minute before 
all lost, because of her tears. But Mattie 
was no foolish, sentimental girl, though she 
was a very natural, human - hearted little 
creature, and wept like the rest of us when 
sorry. Alfred’s going away, too, was, meas- 
ured by her peaceful, care-free days, a trial 
of unwonted severity. Still it would never 
do for Mattie to be idle, even for that, and 


FOUNDATION’S. 


41 

she turned homeward with a quick, light 
step, saying to herself, They will be wait- 
ing breakfast for me.” On her way she 
stopped once to shake a branch of wild 
grape-vine, gemmed with dew-drops, they 
sparkled so as she swayed it back and forth 
in the morning sunlight, making Mattie won- 
der whether to the green leaves her tears 
looked like jewels, as their dew-drops did 
to her ; whether the little fairies, whose 
homes were in the moss-cups and lichens, 
so rich in brown and umber color, watched 
her passing; whether they whispered to 
one another the question, Why tears were 
in the eyes of the earth maiden ? Then 
Mattie quickened her walk into such rapid 
steps, she seemed almost running, to her 
father, who had come part way down the 
lane to meet her. She found they had 
waited breakfast for her ; but no one chided 
her for being late, only farmer Wilson, 
when he gave her the good-morning kiss, 
looked down into the bright eyes, where 
something like a dew-drop still shone, then 
4 * 


42 


FOUNDATlOm. 


at the dimpled mouth, where an unmis- 
takable smile played, and gave her another 
kiss, saying, “You are your mother over 
again, Mattie/’ 

It was towards noon when Joe returned, 
bringing a “ cheerful account of Master Al- 
fred,” and a last message for Mrs. Merwin 
from him, to which Joe added, with the 
familiarity of a long -trusted and faithful 
serving man, “Now just set your mind to 
rest about the lad ; he is well started, and 
will be a pride to this ’er village ere many 
years are gone by ; that ’s my opinion.” To 
Gertrude, in a low voice, Joe confided, 
“ Ye see, Fm not superstitious like, though 
we all know a touch, I ’m thinking, of that 
thing, and last night, when I see the new 
moon over my right shoulder, it turned my 
thoughts to a saying of my old mother’s, 
^ Throw a penny for good luck after a part- 
ing guest.’ So this morning I just heaved 
a copper after Master Alfred as the boat 
slipped out of the dock ; just like a bird a 
flying, that boat went. Don’t think it wrong. 


FOUNDATIONS. 


43 

do ye, Miss Gertrude ? yer face is so grave 
like.” 

Not wrong Joe, but you know there is 
no such thing as luck.” 

“ So folks say, but according to my ob- 
servation, things turn out mighty com- 
fortable for some, and pretty tough for 
t’ others. How d’ ye account for it. Miss 
Gertrude ?” 

Gertrude Merwin was quite unequal to 
talking metaphysics, even with unlearned 
Joe, yet her reply was, after all, the only 
one that can satisfy learned or unlearned. 

“ The Bible says, Joe, ^ Your Heavenly 
Father knoweth what things ye have need 
of,' and I suppose it is the different needs 
makes the different lots.” 

Well, I suppose that ’s so,” said Joe, as 
he went off to his work. 

After dinner Mrs. Wilson and Mattie 
came over to spend an hour or two. The 
house had been so quiet all day ; spite the 
bright sunshine outside, everything had 
looked so dull and desolate till their com- 


44 


FOUNDATIONS. 


ing, when the spell seemed broken, and all 
touched again with its wonted cheer. I 
thought you would be lonely,” said Mrs. 
Wilson. I knew the day must seem long 
after starting Alfred so early, so I said to 
Mattie, ‘ Let us go and sit awhile with Mrs. 
Merwin and the girls.’ What a splendid 
day Alfred has had for his journey ! I sup- 
pose he is near the city by this time. Let me 
see, it is three o’clock now, and he will ar- 
rive about six, won ’t he ?” So the kind- 
hearted woman talked on of that which was 
uppermost in their minds, comforting them 
by a recognition of their loneliness, and at 
the -same time, seeing the bright side of it. 
She gave a cheerful coloring even to Al- 
fred’s arriving in that strange city, the 
thought of which had many a time during 
the day forced tears into Mary’s eyes, and 
which lay like a dull weight on his moth- 
er’s heart. 

It is a beautiful gift from the Heavenly 
Father, this power to console ; Mrs. Wilson 
possessed it in large measure, for though 


FOUNDATIONS. 


45 


unlearned in book knowledge, she had that 
tender heart-knowledge which can ap- 
proach all, because its delicate tact of com- 
fort-giving springs from love and kindness. 
This fairest of the blossoms of grace had 
grown into such rare perfection, from her 
much pondering on those words of the Mas- 
ter, “ Inasmuch, as ye do it unto one of 
the least of these ye do it unto Me.” 

There were other reasons, too, why Mrs. 
Wilson gave consolation with the peculiar 
acceptableness that can only come when 
comfort giving is the outgrowth of sym- 
pathy ; for she, though so bright and happy, 
had known the meaning of sore trial (but 
this does not lie within the limits of our 
story). The memory of that time had 
taught her, also, there are sorrowful hours, 
when silence is the sweetest and only com- 
fort an earthly friend can give ; the touch 
of the hand upon the brow, aching because 
of the wildly throbbing heart ; the shutting 
a ray of sunlight out, when its shining into 
a room of sadness seems to mock the inside 


FOUKDATIOm. 


46 

gloom by the outside brightness. All these 
gentle ministries of a loving heart, Mrs. 
Wilson was ever giving, and there was not 
a home in the village which she had not 
made the gladder ; though, she was naught 
but a farmer’s wife, with rough hands and 
sun-browned face. 

After talking for a while, Mrs. Wilson 
proposed the girls should go for a walk. 
‘‘These bright days cannot last” she said ; 
“you must make the most of them.” So 
they went ; Gertrude and Mattie, to the. 
woods, Mary and little Bessie, down to the 
village post office. 

The two mothers went out into the porch 
to watch the children. The autumn sunshine 
was so warm, they sat down on the broad 
seat, and while their hands were busy with 
knitting and sewing, in soft voices they 
talked, as is the way with mothers, of the 
young lives so dear to them, and of the fu- 
ture, into which they every day were step- 
ping farther and farther. 

All unnoticed, the shadows of the trees 


FOUNDATIONS, 


47 

stretched far across the meadow, as the sun 
sank toward the west. Not till the shout of 
Bertie, driving home the cows from pasture 
reminded them of the hour, did Mrs. Wil- 
son start for home. 




CHAPTER V. 

HE girls kept together till they came 



X to the meadow-lot; there Mary and 
Bessie turned into the road leading to the 
village, while Mattie and Gertrude crossed 
the little bridge, taking the path by the 
brook side. On they wandered, hand in 
hand, till they came to the very spot where 
Mattie stood in the morning. This was 
their favorite place, sitting on the project- 
ing rock, cleft on one side, so that it form- 
ed a sheltered seat. Many and long were 
the talks they had of those questions which 
press hardest when first they greet the 
young soul, and which they met even in 
their own secluded lives. 




FOmDATIONS, 


49 

From early childhood, the girls had loved 
and been intimate together like sisters; 
the very imlikeness, in many of their most 
striking characteristics, only served to add 
a fresh zest to their intercourse ; for while 
Gertrude, in thought and acquirement was 
the superior, Mattie’s guileless heart was 
constantly adding a sweeter perfume to the 
more solid opinions of her friend. 

It was a pleasant resting-place they chose 
— the rock side, overgrown with gray and 
olive-green lichens. On the top were soft 
cushions qf tiny tree-like white moss, with 
here and there a clump of “red tips,” as 
the children called the little crimson-crown- 
ed things. “ Bits of red coral, they look 
like ; don’t they Mattie ?” said Gertrude, 
“ filled out, as they are, from the rain-drops 
they drank in yesterday. I always think 
of a verse in the Bible when I come here 
after a rain-storm. The little mosses, grow- 
ing way up on the rock-top, catch the fall- 
ing drops so eagerly, and seem so glad 
afterwards when the clouds disappear, and 
5 


50 


FOUNDATIONS. 


the sun shines again, while those down be- 
low are out of it all. I always long to say 
to them, ‘Why don’t you grow a little 
higher — creep up a little more — then you 
would be in it too.’ ” 

“ I never thought of them so before,” re- 
plied Mattie. “ What verse is it they make 
you think of?” 

“ Why, that one in the parable of the 
Prodigal Son, where it says, ‘ And Avhen he 
came to himself, he said. How many hired 
servants of my father’s have bread enough, 
and to spare, while I perish with hunger.’ 
It seems to me parables are written every- 
where. This, I think, is one reason why 
Christ used such simple, every-day illustra- 
tions in the teaching of them ; just that we, 
in following after Him, might look for them 
too.” 

“ Who but you, Gertrude, would ever 
have thought of the little moss-cups, as fill- 
ed with Gospel meanings; but they are, 
aren’t they?” said Mattie. “But I don’t 


FOUNDATIOm. 


51 

see why they make you think specially of 
that verse.” 

Don’t you, Mattie? Just look at them 
now ; those that have a place from which 
they look up all the time, right into the blue 
sky, seem so full of life ; while those hid- 
den away from its light are dry and brown, 
as we all — I mean some of us — are pictured 
in that parable, standing out of the sunlight 
of His presence, while others of His follow- 
ers are dwellers up in the place where the 
heavenly light falls all the time, and we, by 
a little more striving, might be up there, 
too, only we are content to stay down on 
the rock side instead of climbing up to its 
top — content to perish with hunger, fed 
only with the bread which comes from 
below, while we might be filled with heav- 
enly manna. Oh, Mattie ! I am sometimes 
so dissatisfied with myself, I stay so outside 
of the fullness of Divine things, not only in 
my thoughts but in my life.” 

Mattie shook her head, and replied, '' Ger- 
trude, dear, we won’t do any better by 


52 


FOUNDATIONS. 


being dissatisfied^ will we ? And I do not 
think at all as you do, for I believe the 
brown mosses, that cling to the rock side, 
are just as much filling their place and do- 
ing their work as those that are up on its 
top, just as we are to be hopeful and cheer- 
ful, filling the place God gives us in this 
world, whether it be a clinging rock-side 
place, or up in the light of His sunshine.” 

“ Dear little Mattie,” said Gertrude, as 
she bent over and kissed her, you always 
find the co^nfort in everything. But, think- 
ing of the parables, does n’t it seem to you 
that Christ classified them according to our 
different ranks and wants — for the rich 
and powerful, the ‘ pearl of great price,’ the . 
‘ ten pounds,’ the ‘ rich man and Lazarus ;’ 
and, for the working-people, the ^ leaven,’ 
the ‘ house swept and garnished,’ the ‘ net 
cast into the sea,’ the ‘ laborer in the vine- 
yard for the fearful and timid-hearted the 
* good shepherd and the sheep ;’ for the 
active workers (and the indolent ones, too), 
the ‘ vine ’ and the branches. But, hark ! I 


FOUm>ATIONS. 


53 


hear Bertie calling to Rover up in the past- 
ure. Can it be time for him to drive the 
cows home already ? If so, we must go 
too.” 

Still they lingered, gathering sprig after 
sprig of the bitter-sweet vine, which hung 
in graceful festoons from a cedar tree round 
which it had twined for support. Great 
clusters they pulled. Then, laden with 
their treasures, they turned homeward. 

Oh, I am so tired,” said Gertrude. “ If 
Alfred were only here, he would have 
climbed after it for us. Don ’t it make you 
miss him, Mattie, fo think how often that 
dreadful little if will have to come when 
we speak of him now ? I know it will be 
in my heart all the time.” 

Mattie did not reply for a moment ; then 
she said, I lay awake so long last night, 
and I made up my mind to think more of 
his coming home than his going away.” 

Did you lie awake, too ?” answered Ger- 
trude. “ So did I. Mother read the chapter 
where it tells of the wise man who built his 
5 '^ 


FOUNDATIOm 


54 

house on a rock, and of the foolish who 
built on the sand. I repeated the words 
over to myself so many times in the night. 
They hold a parable for us, don’t they, 
Mattie?” 

I am so glad your mother read that ; it 
was just the very end I wanted to give to 
what Alfred and I had been saying. We 
talked for ever so long about the future, 
planning all sorts of beautiful things for it. 
Alfred laughingly said he would always call 
me, little ‘ Castle Builder.’ I did so long to 
tell him, I was trjdng to build something 
more enduring than ‘ Castles in the Air ;’ 
but I am always afraid to say such things, 
even -to Alfred, whom I know so well.” 

“ Castles in the air, and castles in the 
heart ; how busy we are making them all 
the time,” replied Gertrude. “ Our life is like 
a piece of mosaic work, isn ’t it?” 

“ I never saw any mosaic,” said Mattie. 

Oh, I forgot, you were ill that summer 
Aunt Merwin came to see us ; she used to 
wear a brooch, a picture of a ruined castle, 


FOUNDATIONS, 


55 

made of bright - colored stones, the very 
tiniest bits of stones; each one fitted into 
its own place ; if one were loosened it would 
be spoiled, she said. That was the very day 
before baby Bessie dropped it from her lit- 
tle hand, and marred all its beauty by a 
great crack right across the castle. We 
are like the mosaic workers, Mattie, all the 
time filling up the days that a few years 
hence will make our life ; and each little ac- 
tion or thought is like one of those tiny bits 
of stone fitted in somewhere. Does it not 
frighten you to think that some day, just 
as our life mosaic seems complete, perhaps 
a rude shock may come and mar its beauty 
as the crack did Aunt Merwin’s brooch ?” 

“ No, it does not frighten me,” said Mat- 
tie, because, if our days are held together 
by the abiding Faith, Hope and Charity, 
nothing can really mar them ; but see, the 
sun is almost down.” 

And laden with the branches of red ber- 
ries and green leaves, the girls hastened 
homeward. 



CHAPTER VI. 



'HE day which seemed so long to those 


X left at home passed rapidly to Alfred, 
varied as it was, by new scenes and quickly 
changing emotions. 

Not till he waved a last farewell to Joe, 
and the steamboat pushed off from the dock, 
did he fully realize the time had actually 
come when he was to begin life for himself. 
Even then, for an hour or two, he felt still 
surrounded by familiar scenes, for the river 
banks, for miles above and below the vil- 
lage, were well known to all the young peo- 
ple ; every rod of the way was traced with 
some memory. There was the clump of 


(56) 


FOUNDATIONS. 


57 


trees where he and some other boys made a 
hut with snow sides, and evergreen boughs 
for its roof, one winter three or four years 
ago, kindling a great wood fire, roasting 
potatoes in the hot embers for the girls 
Alfred smiled, thinking how clear and 
smooth the ice was that Saturday after- 
noon, how he glided over it with bird-like 
fleetness far in advance of the others, even 
though he did push Mattie and Gertrude 
on the sled before him. He remembered 
how the girls clapped their hands with glee 
at being the first, and their merry shouts on 
discovering the hut and the fire which 
some of the younger boys had gone down 
an hour before to light; and how Mattie 
called his skates feet wings ; ” how Ger- 
Jtrude in the evening at home, helped him 
rub the already shining steel of skate and 
sled - runner into mirror - like polish and 
brightness. Roused, by some one passing, 
from his reverie, Alfred looked up to find 
the clump of trees left far behind the quick- 
going boat; but he had yet to pass one 


FOUNDATIONS. 


58 

more memory place” — the winding creek — 
whose quiet waters in spring and autumn 
days, he and Joe had so often stirred into 
a thousand little ripples, by the stealthy 
paddling of their tiny boat, made into a 
bower of moving green, to • delude the 
wild ducks and snipe into the belief that 
what approached them was only a green 
bush, till with quick, sure aim, the cruel lit- 
tle shot and the harsh bang of the gun 
scattered many of their number into a rest- 
less flight, and always made two or three 
drop silently, to be picked up exultingly 
and carried home as trophies of the morn- 
ing’s hunt. When he had passed beyond 
these haunts of happy days, he fixed 
his gaze on the mountains, every min- 
ute now growing fainter and more far away^ 
in outline ; so long as he could see them, 
something of home seemed near ; even after 
they became quite indistinct, he still won- 
dered whether the misty lines up north- 
ward were clouds or mountains. 

Just as the dull ache of home sickness 


FOUNDATIom. 


59 


was settling with a bitter chill about his 
heart, a cheerful voice asked, “ Bound for 
the city, young man?. Never been there 
afore, I reckon.” “ No, never,” replied Al- 
fred. “ Well, a pretty stiff place you ’ll find 
it for your principles, lad, but there’s a pow- 
erful sight of good there, mixed up with 
the bad. Ain’t it surprising, what little 
soil, ^nd poor at that, the good grows on.” 
Before Alfred had time to reply to the 
quaint old man who addressed him so 
unceremoniously, a gentleman, standing 
near, joined them, and said in a deep power- 
ful voice, “ Behold, a sower went forth to 
sow ; and when he sowed, some seeds fell 
by the way-side, and the fowls came and 
devoured them up. Some fell upon stony 
places, where they had not much earth ; 
and forthwith they sprung up, because they 
had no deepness of earth ; and when the 
sun was up, they were scorched ; and be- 
cause they had no root, they withered away ; 
and some fell among thorns ; and the thorns 
sprung up, and choked them : but other fell 


6o 


FOUNDATIONS. 


into good ground, and brought forth fruit, 
some an hundred-fold, some sixty-fold, some 
thirty-fold; ’’ adding, as he finished the 
quotation, The fruit here described seems to 
have needed good ground and plenty of it.” 

“Well, yes, that’s so,” said the old man, 
“but them ’s Bible words.” 

The new comer smiled, and answered, 
“ Then they are the best we can have ; beau- 
tiful scenes like these, by which we are sur- 
rounded to-day, lead one to think of Bible 
truths, at least if they know anything of 
their meaning, and so the picture words 
which Christ used, come to us with more 
fullness at these times. 

“Be you a preacher? I judge ye be, by 
speaking so natural like, on such matters. 
Most folks are kind o’ still in talking 
about the Bible, least ways afore strangers 
like this young man and me.” “ No, I am 
not a preacher, but a lawyer,” replied the 
gentleman. 

This was Alfreds’ introduction to Wol- 
cott Burnham, whose friendship, in long 


FOUNDATIONS. 


6i 


after years, was such help to him, and whose 
council given that first day of absence from 
home, if heeded, might have been such a 
safeguard against the many new and un- 
thought of temptations which so soon he 
encountered. 

Could Joe, an hour later, have seen Alfred 
and his new-found friend engaged in ear- 
nest conversation, he would have said. 
Well, it ’s just as I calculated it would be ; 
the lad has made a lucky hit already.” But 
Mrs. Merwin would have bowed her head 
in prayer, and lifted her heart in thanks- 
giving to the Heavenly Father, whose love 
had brought her boy, even for a little while, 
into the circle of pure noble influences 
which emanated from the warm, active 
Christian life of Wolcott Burnham. 

The old man proved to be a cattle deal- 
er from the West, who, as he expressed it, 
had toughed it all his days but spite the 
toughing, a warm true place in his heart 
remained, which responded to much Mr. 
Burnham said. 

6 


62 


FOUNDATIONS. 


Half regretfully, he told them, pointing 
down the river, “ that 'er place where ye 
see the church-steeple, is where I stop.” 
Then he paused a moment, awkwardly 
fumbling in his pocket, from which he drew 
forth a yellow-and-red handkerchief of no 
scanty dimensions, unfolding it with an as- 
sumed air of indifference and importance, 
as though to hide, by his action, the real, 
deep feeling which sounded in his voice, 
while he said, I ’m obleeged to ye, sir, for 
the good seed ye ’ve let drop in my hearing, 
and it may be it ain’t all fallen among 
thorns. If there were more such men as ye 
a-going, the world would be a different place 
entirely, that ’s a fact. Well, good-day to ye 
both.” Turning to Alfred, he added, I 
hope ye ’ll be prospered.” Then, looking at 
Mr. Burnham, he said, “ You are prospered 
already. Good-by agin and he left them. 

After that, Mr. Burnham and Alfred fell 
into a long talk, in which Alfred quite forgot 
Mr. Burnham was a stranger. Won by the 
dignity and calmness of his manner, ere 


FOUNDATIONS. 


63 

half an hour had gone by, he was telling 
him, with as much freedom as though he 
had been conversing with an old acquaint- 
ance, of his home, his mother, sisters, Bertie 
and Mattie, “ who is almost the same as a 
sister,” he said. From talking of home, 
Mr. Burnham led the conversation, easily 
and naturally, round to the subject of which 
they first spoke, asking Alfred had he ever 
thought, that only once, and that at the 
time of the creation, did the earth bring 
forth trees and grain, which had their seeds 
in themselves, without previous sowing ; 
since then nothing grew unless first its seed 
had been put into the ground.” Then he 
went on to speak of the seed incorruptible, 
‘‘the Word of God, which liveth and 
abideth for ever ” — went on to tell of 
Christ, Whose life and death was the sow- 
ing of that incorruptible seed — the seed 
which is springing up wherever His Gospel 
is made known. 

All this Mr. Burnham said, with none of 
that constraint of manner which so often 


5 ^ FOUNDATIOm. 

mars the influence of those who strive to 
reveal the love of Christ, more from a sense 
of duty, than because that love is infused 
into their own souls, and so, as they grow 
(as we all do) toward that which they love 
best — approximate to that they long after 
most, they cannot refrain from speaking of 
the Divine Master, who is their Lord and 
Friend. “ How many different kinds of 
soil,'’ Mr. Burnham, continued, “ are de- 
scribed in the parable ! The wayside — the 
path trodden hard by many passers ; ^the 
stony ground, where but little earth lies, 
where the seed sown springs up into green, 
that quickly decays for lack of nourish- 
ment, just as those that hear the Word with 
joy, but -perceive not the deep need of 
ground, freed from rocks and stones, that 
the roots of the heavenly plant may ex- 
pand, soon tire of the Christian life. The 
thorny ground — that is the saddest of all; 
for it seems to tell of ‘ insincerity in every- 
thing;’ even the fruit which it bringeth 
forth is interwoven with thorns. Dark, in- 


FOUNDATIONS. 


65 

deed, would be this picture were it not for 
that after-word, which tells of ‘the good 
ground which is free from stone and thorn, 
and which typifies the pure good heart.’ 
Only he who gives himself up unreser- 
vedly to the Heavenly Sower finds his 
heart daily becoming like the good ground, 
which yields now thirty -fold, then sixty, 
and, growing more and more into the like- 
ness of his Master, goes on, from glory to 
glory, till the sixty-fold becomes a hun- 
dred. 

“ Now I must bid you good-by,” said Mr. 
Burnham ; “ for, as our old friend said this 
morning, yonder white spire marks the vil- 
lage where I stop. You will reach the city 
in about an hour.” Putting his hand into 
his pocket, he took out a card, on which he 
wrote his address, handing it to Alfred, say- 
ing, “ Come and see me soon. I expect to 
be in town Friday. After this pleasant day 
together, we shall always be friends, I 
trust.” Then, with a cordial grasp of the 
hand, he hurried off, warned by the ring- 
er 


66 


FOUJWATIOm. 


ing bell, before Alfred had time to say one 
word of thanks for his kindness. 

Alfred watched his tall figure, as he 
mingled with the crowd on the landing ; 
saw an elderly gentleman come forward to 
meet him, and, a minute after, saw him 
stoop and lift a little girl, with golden hair 
like Bessie’s, up into his strong arms. Just 
as the ^‘All aboard ” was shouted, and the 
boat pushed off, Mr. Burnham turned, smil- 
ing, with the same frank kindness of his 
first greeting, and waved his hand in token 
of farewell. 






CHAPTER VII. 

I T was toward twilight when Alfred 
reached the city. The unwonted noise 
and confusion quite bewildered him for a 
few minutes ; he felt almost hopeless of ever 
finding his way out of the crowd of men, 
women, children, trucks and produce, which 
filled the wharf. He had claimed his trunk, 
and there it stood by his side, seeming so 
small and insignificant amongst the huge 
piles of luggage which were being rapidly 
deposited on the dock. Looking down on 
it, Alfred had, for the first time, an unde- 
fined sense that things were going to seem 
so different to him from what they had done 

(67) 


58 FO UNDA TIONS. 

at home. His uncle had written he would 
meet him, but not till the crowd had some- 
what dispersed, did he notice a portly 
gentlemen approaching, a stranger, Alfred 
thought, till the smile which lit up his face, 
as he extended his hand, showed Alfred it 
was none other than his uncle, who address- 
ed him, saying, “ I thought I never should 
find you. How you have changed ! Your 
aunt will hardly believe you are the slender 
lad she became so fond of that summer — let 
me see — four years ago now.” Not giving 
Alfred time to reply, he continued, ^‘All 
well at home, I. hope. A hard trial for your 
mother to part with you. Well, well, we 
must get her and the girls to the city. Had 
a pleasant journey, I trust. Come this way ; 
my carriage is waiting.” Then, turning to 
a colored man in liveried coat, Mr. Mer- 
win said, “ Bring the young gentleman’s 
trunk, Thomas.” And in a few minutes, 
Alfred was leaning back in the soft cushion- 
ed seat of a luxurious carriage, and being 
rapidly whirled through street after street. 


FOUNDATIONS, 


69 

Notwithstanding his uncle’s kind manner, 
the undefined loneliness of feeling was grow- 
ing more and more intense. The gaily- 
lighted streets, thronged with people, made 
it all seem so strong and self-confident — 
made him realize so vividly his own little- 
ness and unimportance. His heart sank, 
and he felt almost a terror of the morrow, 
when he must encounter and make part of 
just such a crowd. After the brief conversa- 
tion with which he welcomed him, Mr. 
Merwin relapsed into silence, and Alfred, 
looking from the carriage window, fell into 
wondering whether it really could be, that 
God knew and cared for every of 
the many passers, just as He did for the 
dwellers in quiet country villages ; whether 
the Heavenly Father’s eye was looking down 
on that vast throng of people, separating 
the interests and wants of one from another, 
all individuality seemed so lost ; but the dear 
simple faith his mother had taught was still 
throbbing warm and fresh in his heart. 
Almost unconsciously, in a low voice, which 


FOUNDATIONS. 


70 

was lost amid the rumbling of wheels, ere 
it reached his uncle, he repeated to himself 
the verse, “ Are not two sparrows sold for 
a farthing ? and one of them shall not fall 
on the ground without your Father. The 
very hairs of your head are all numbered.” 
Saying the words eased the dull pain, quiet- 
ed his foreboding dread. 

It was but natural Alfred should feel thus 
on first arriving in the city ; all was so un- 
like the secluded village where he had 
grown up, and where he had recognized 
every passer. The constant meeting with 
strangers could not but call forth a sense of 
loneliness, for he had known the great pul- 
sing heart of humanity with knowledge 
vague as that of the trapper, who leaps the 
brook and thinks he knows the waters, 
till brought into contact with the weather- 
beaten mariner, who has crossed the broad 
ocean, and who leads him to the beach, 
where the sea-wave of one day creeps up 
and along the sand with peaceful monoton- 
ous flow, and the next breaks in dashing 


FOUIiDATIONS, 


71 

waves, crested with foam-crowns, on that 
same beach. While the sailor points out 
over the wide expanse, the trapper stands 
bewildered, finding the stream he knew, 
contrasted with the waters, is nothing more 
than one little leaf amid the thousands and 
thousands that shimmer in the morning 
sunlight, out in the oak opening where the 
brook was born. 

Next morning, he was duly installed in 
his uncle’s office. For the first day or two, 
he went about the duties allotted him, in a 
dull, mechanical way, feeling self-conscious 
all the time. The clerks seemed to him 
such handsome, well-dressed young men, 
and so very clever in all they said, he quite 
despaired of ever equalling them ; but this 
soon wore off, and when Saturday came, he 
was on cordial terms with some half dozen 
of his new companions, and already the 
novelty of the crowded streets, the noise 
and confusion of the city, had become fa- 
miliar sights and sounds. But, Sunday 
morning, the longing for home took full 


FOUIWATIOm. 


72 

possession of his heart again ; it all came 
over him so vividly, as he took one thing 
after another from the tray which his moth- 
er had packed, and where she told him he 
would find his “ Sunday suit.” There it 
lay, neatly folded, just as her dear hands 
had put it in ; beside it^ the unpretending 
little blue cravat, (quite unlike the flashy 
ones worn by his new acquaintances,) which 
Gertrude had made and thought so pretty, 
with the spotless linen, and well-starched col- 
lars, looking as he was sure they never would 
when done up in that smoky city. In one 
corner, his mother had slipped in several 
books that had belonged to his grandfather. 
Dominie Merwin, and which Alfred had 
been brought up to consider among the 
chief treasures of his home. To be sure, 
there were the old silver spoons, marked 
with the initial letter ; some curious china ; 
one or two ancient relics, in the way of 
side-board, arm chairs, and the great clock 
which stood in the sitting-room ; but these 
Alfred’s father always said, were of little 


FOUNDATIONS. 


n 

value compared with the ‘books,’ which 
linked them, not only by the sight and use 
of things belonging to the by-gone, to 
those past years, but brought them into in- 
timate knowledge and sympathy with that 
former time. 

They were quaint little volumes Alfred’s 
mother had selected, marred by time stains 
and much use. The first he looked at, 
often he had seen in her hands. It was an 
old copy of the “Imitation of Christ,” by 
Thomas a Kempis, bearing the date of 1762. 
Opposite, was written in straight up and 
down letters, his grandmother’s name, 
“Abigail Merwin, her book.” Several 
places were marked, Alfred wondered, 
whether by his mother, or grandmother. 
The first his eye fell on was, “ Simplicity 
and purity are the two wings with which 
man soars above the earth and all tempo- 
rary nature just beyond came the sen- 
tence, “He only can have great tranquillity, 
whose happiness depends not on the praise 
or dispraise of men. The rejoicing of a 
7 


FOUNDATIONS, 


74 

good man, is the testimony of his con- 
science.” 

Every leaf he turned was rich in counsel, 
for, little matters it that years have come 
and gone since the old monk, in quiet clois- 
ter, “ with serge gown and tonsured head, 
with much chaunting and long fasts, and 
with a fashion of speech different from 
ours,” wrote the words that have echoed 
down through the ages, because they came 
from a human heart that suffered, sinned 
and struggled, just as we do ; who found 
calmness and peace by treading the same 
path we must tread if we would attain to 
the same faith and final triumph — the lowly 
path, that ever keeps within the shadow 
of the Rock. These records of striving 
after nearness to Christ, that were written 
in monastery cells, that were born into life 
amid poverty, retirement, and self-renunci- 
ation, are like perpetual incense, whose 
clear flame burns steadily through all the 
changes of time and creeds, ever bearing 
testimony to the glory of the Lord.” 


FOUNDATIONS. 


75 

There stood Alfred, on the threshold of 
a new and strange life ; already he was 
dazzled by the glimpses he had caught of 
un thought of excitement and new pleasures. 
It was the very sense of having become, 
even in such a short time, a stranger in 
many things to the self of a week ago, that 
wakened the longing for home and the ac- 
customed way of Sabbath spending ; it was 
this that held him spell-bound, turning the 
leaves, one after another of the books his 
mother had chosen. He took up one, less 
time-worn, but here and there containing 
passages marked with pencil, such firm em- 
phatic marks, they must have been his 
grandfather’s ; the book was “ Taylor’s 
Rules for Holy Living.’" A folded paper 
was pinned on the fly leaf ; Alfred opened 
it, and read, ‘‘ Schiller’s three words of 
strength, translated May 3rd.” (He knew 
the writing and translation were his father’s, 
for Mr. Merwin was a scholarly man). 

“ There are three lessons I would write — 

Three words, as with a golden pen, 


76 


FOUNDATIONS. 


In tracings of eternal light, 

Upon the hearts of men. 

Have hope ! Though clouds environ round, 

And gladness hides her face in scorn. 

Put thou the shadow from thy brow, 

No night, but hath its morn. 

Have faith ! Where’er thy bark is driven, 

The calm’s disport, the tempest’s mirth. 

Know this, God rules the hosts of heaven. 

The inhabitants of earth. 

Have love ! Not love alone for one, 

But man, as man, thy brother call ; 

And scatter like the circling sun. 

Thy charities on all. 

Thus grave these lessons on thy soul, 

Hope, faith, and love, and thou shall find, 
Strength, when life’s surges rudest roll. 

Light, when thou else wert blind.” 

Were they written on his heart? Alfred 
stood silently asking himself this question, 
till the ringing of the church bells sounded, 
when he hastily laid books and paper away. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

J UST as in the spring time, the stream 
that has crept along month after month, 
in even course, is swollen into rushing 
waters, that overflow the bank sides, break- 
ing down barriers, making now and then 
a new path in its onward way, because the 
ice-bound brooks and cascades up among 
the northern hills are unchained ; so there 
are days in almost every life, that divide the 
past from the future or present with clearly 
defined distinctness; days, to which the 
soul turns, and, hide the knowledge from 
stranger eyes as it may, confesses to itself, 
it was then and there I lifted up the flood- 
7 * (77) 



FOUKDATIONS. 


78 

gate, that first little gap, through which 
the waters began to flow in. It may have 
been the “ well of water, springing up into 
everlasting life,” the first drops of which 
slaked the thirst of the weary soul. It may 
have been the still waters, leading through 
the green pasture land. Or, perchance, it 
may have been, standing by the side of one 
being led by the Lamb unto the “ Living 
Fountain of waters,” that a day was sealed for 
him who stays here, as well as for the one 
gone there, as the entrance into a life dif- 
ferent from what it ever was before. But, 
alas ! it may be no green pasture path — no 
still water course — no thirst-satisfying por- 
tion, that alone possesseth the power of 
marking one day as a bridging place ; for there 
is a tide rushing through the heart leading 
from all this — a turbulent stream, with cur- 
rent swift and treacherous, carrying the 
soul onward, but so far away from the 
peaceful “ river of God.” And yet, its wa- 
ters sparkle with dancing gems of light, 
when first we sail them, as in the dark night 


FOUNDATIONS. 


79 

the ocean waves gleam with phosphores- 
cent glow, that, looked down upon, rivals the 
stars sometimes in brightness. Only, to 
them we always look upward. 

It was thus with Alfred’s first Sabbath in 
the city. In the morning, he turned the 
leaves of his Bible ; he held in his hands 
the books his mother had chosen for him ; 
through his heart the sweet home memories 
echoed ; and he went from his room, to the 
house of God ; he heard the song of praise ; 
he listened to the prayer of supplication ; 
hearkened to the minister’s earnest plead- 
ings, which told of Jesus — which ended with 
the words, “Ye are bought with a price.” 

From the church he turned, with mind 
full of aspiration, with something of desire 
to know for himself (not only through his 
mother’s faith and Mattie’s simple trust) 
what it really meant, to be indeed Christ’s. 
By the side of the still waters he stood that 
noon time. But, “ I think I ’ll wait a little 
longer,” he said to himself — and — the 
church bells rang again. Just at that mo- 


8o 


FOUNDATIONS. 


ment of indecision, came one of his new ac- 
quaintances, the one he liked best of all, a 
young man scarcely more than a year or 
two older than himself. “ Splendid day, 
isn’t it ?” said Frank Howe. “ Came to see 
if you felt like a drive.” Why did the color 
rush up into Alfred’s face as he replied. 
No, I am going to church” ? “ Church ! No 
such thing ; you are going to drive with me.” 
It was only a ten minutes’ parley, but it was 
the first step to Alfred — ^the first turning 
from the habits of childhood. Together 
the young men passed through street after 
streets and tlua — What could Alfred do 
when his new found friend said, Let ’s stop 
awhile?” Jumping out, he fastened the 
horse, and led the way into a hotel, where 
the remaining part of the day was lounged 
away in idle talk and light jest. The lamps 
were lit when they started to return, but 
still the ^‘Sunday look” pervaded every 
thing; the shop windows, usually blazing 
with light, closed and dark;, the noisy 
thoroughfares, almost quiet, missing the 


FOUNDATIOm. 


8l 


wonted rumbling of omnibusses and bus- 
iness vehicles. This mute recognition that 
it was the Lord’s day, and holy time, re- 
proached Alfred, perhaps more than any 
words could have done. When he reached 
his boarding house, (for he had left his 
uncle’s the day before,) the servant handed 
him a card saying, A gentleman left it for 
you about two hours ago.” The card was 
Mr. Burnham’s, who had written on it, “ I 
have been to your uncle’s, who gave me 
your address. Am sorry not to find you. 
Come and take tea with us, at six o’clock. 
I want you to go with me to the evening 
service.” 

Alfred looked at his watch, the old silver 
one that had been his grandfather’s and 
then his father’s ; the hands pointed to half- 
past seven. “ It is too late,” he said, “ and 
I am tired.” Then he went up-stairs into 
his room, lit the gas, looked about ; every- 
thing was the same as when he stood there 
in the morning, but all seemed so unlike. 
What was it made the difference ? He 


82 


FOmDATIONS. 


turned the gas low and sat down by the 
window, asking himself, What had he done ? 
Nothing so very wrong. To be sure, he 
had not spent the day quite as his mother 
would be hoping he had ; and in his heart 
loudly sounded the early teaching, “ Re- 
member the Sabbath day to keep it holy.” 
But then there came another little whisper, 
which said, “No great harm in taking a 
drive.” So the warfare of conscience and 
self- justification went on; and the latter 
gained the victory, for an hour later Alfred 
shut the window with impatience, saying 
to himself, “ What a baby I am to sit here 
fretting over a thing I never need do 
again ! ” 

The stream — had it so soon begun to over- 
flow the green banks, blossoming with the 
flowers of a mother’s love? Would its 
waters quite drown the little tender plants, 
whose roots were in home influence ? Had 
it already begun its new way for the on- 
ward voyage, dividing the by-gone and the 
coming by only the ' bridge of a day ’ ? — a 


FOUNDATIONS. 


83 

seemingly uneventful day, passed much in 
the ordinary way of Sabbath - spending — 
church in the morning, afternoon spent with 
a friend. That was Alfred's account of it 
to his mother, in the letter he wrote to her 
that same evening. And yet that mis- 
spent Sabbath, that morning message, Ye 
are bought with a price,” which Alfred set 
aside, stretched over the stream that divid- 
ed the old way from the new, growing for 
years, wider and wider ; for after that Sun- 
day it never was so easy a thing for him to 
say No.” Not but that often he did it ; 
much he resisted ; but the resisting was 
done in his own strength ; and so it gave 
way to the steady pressure which surround- 
ed him. His house was built upon the 
sand. How could it stand amid the buffet- 
ing waves and wild winter winds ? 

And yet the Rock was near him. 

Many months came and went ere Alfred 
passed quite into the darkness of a life 
estranged from the God of his fathers ; and 
then his eyes were blinded, and he called 


FOUNDATIONS. 


84 

light, dark, and dark, light. Still, in his heart 
ever lingered echoes of his mother and 
home — only he heeded them not. Then 
came the midnight into his soul. But after 
the night is the morning; and, mid the 
darkness, his mother prayed. 




CHAPTER IX. 

G ertrude and Mattie were more 
with one another than ever before, 
the fall and winter after Alfred left home. 
Long walks they took in the bright autumn 
sunshine, rambling over the hills in search 
of treasures for the winter, as they called 
the frost -painted leaves, with which they 
came home laden almost every afternoon 
during October and November. “ There 
never was a season of such wonderful 
beauty in leaf-turning, I do think,” said 
Mrs. Wilson, one Saturday, as the girls sat 
on the door-step, resting after their walk, 
and displaying the “ perfect beauties ” they 
had found. 


8 


(85) 


86 


FOUNBATIOm. 


Just look at this, mother !” exclaimed , 
Mattie, holding up a branch of maple, ting- 
ed with brightest color ; one leaf was edged 
with crimson, blended into a faint glow ere 
it met the bright green, which was un- 
broken, save by a golden kiss, outlined by 
shadowy brown. 

“ It seems like a little histor}’ of a year — a 
little story of life, does n’t it ? ” said Ger- 
trude ; just like one of those German tales, 
Mattie, we took last winter from the village 
library to read, which ‘ half reveal and half 
conceal ’ their meaning. Look at the beau- 
tiful bright green of its centre, murmuring 
of spring and childhood ; the lovely glow- 
ing of its color-dyed edges, whispering of 
summer and maturity, and that golden 
mark, telling of autumn and of life, when 
the spring and summer buds and blossoms 
have ripened into rich fruit ; the shadowy- 
brown, that tells of winter and old age 
near. . See how it touches every one 
of the other colors, encircling the golden, 
surrounded by the green, reaching down 


FOUNDATIONS. 


87 

on that side till it creeps into the crimson. 
I suppose life always must be so encom- 
passed with the by-gone days.” 

“ It is beautiful to think,” interrupted 
Mattie, that old age is not really very far 
separated from the fresh green of youth.” 

Mrs. Wilson smiled, listening to the 
girls’ talk. The way Gertrude had of mak- 
ing ^Mittle song bits” out of everything, 
always seemed, (familiar though she was 
with it,) wonderful to Mrs. Wilson, and 
while such fancies never would have occur- 
red to her, they were none the less appre- 
ciated and sympathized with. “ Give me 
the leaf,” she said, stooping and taking it 
from Mattie’s hand ; “ I will press it ; some 
day when you are an old woman, Gertie, 
Mattie must give it to you. I hope 3^011 
will find the green, then, dear.” So all un- 
consciously Mrs. Wilson, too, gave the first 
line to an after poem, little thinking its 
song would be learned through pain before 
the time of old age ” came to the young 
girls. 


88 


FOUNDATIONS. 


But are not the sweetest songs cradled 
in the little ark, that, hidden doAvn among 
the rushes, safely guards the flowers that 
blossom mid the shade ? Do we not learn 
in suffering, what we teach in song?” Is 
there not an ambef of spirit life, that needs 
floating off, and bringing up to the surface ? 
Just as the '‘germ of fossil trees ” needs the 
ocean waves to float it off and upward ere 
we catch its mellow radiance, does the soul 
need storm -waves, ere it gives forth its 
sweetest notes of praise — its “hymns of 
spiritual amber.” 

This talk was but one of the many picture 
patches, that were constantly filling up the 
girls’ days with beautiful glad memories. 
Not but that they led very practical lives ; 
there were mornings, busy with dusting 
and sweeping, cake baking and bread mak- 
ing ; never were there lighter, whiter rolls 
than those Gertrude made ; never cake so 
delicious, as the loaves Mattie’s dainty fin- 
gers mixed ; long seams of plain sewing, too, 
were accomplished; neat little stitches 


FOUNDATIONS. 


taken which converted strips of linen into 
collars and wristbands ; wonderful handi- 
work, in all these ways, they performed. 
And, are not these last, homely duties 
though they may be, as much (and more) 
woman’s work, as the weaving of her light 
graceful fancies into tangible forms? — 
which, after all, are but words. 

Mrs. Merwin and Mrs. Wilson thought 
so, though, to be sure, they were only coun- 
try women, who never caught any thing 
more than the reverberation of the great out- 
side strife, for women’s privileges and 
rights.” When of a Friday afternoon, the 
weekly paper came, and they read of Mrs. 
this one, speaking there. Miss that, asserting 
herself here, they shook their heads and 
wondered what the women wanted with 
more privileges than they already had. 
Mrs. Wilson thought of her husband and 
her household ; they seemed to her to com- 
prise such a large sphere— the helping him 
make both ends meet,” (for farming was 
not the profitable occupation it once was,) 
8 ^ 


90 


FOUJWATIOm. 


and making home cheerful and comfortable 
to welcome him, when with twilight he 
came, weary, from hours of toil. Then 
there was Mattie to guide and care for ; be- 
side all this, to go where a man could not, 
and minister beside beds of pain and lan- 
guishing ; to whisper words of womanly 
tenderness and cheer in homes of sorrow 
and want ; to be a patient Christian in the 
kitchen and the dairy, where things would 
go wrong now and then ; to make the shin- 
ing little needle fly, stitch after stitch, in the 
completion of needed garments for farmer 
Wilson, Mattie, or herself, and to crowd in 
with that home sewing, stitches for others, 
who had less time and less to do with than 
she. 

Dear me !” she said, talking to Mattie, 
“ I don ’t know what more, women want, 
than they have already in the outside liv- 
ing, and the inside too, for that matter. 
Think, Mattie, how Christ hearkened to the 
prayers of women ; think how He said of 
Mary, ‘ She hath chosen the good part 


FOTJNDA'tlONS. 


91 


and what was she doing ? Not mixing with 
the multitude, lifting up her voice in the 
councils of the people, but sitting at the 
Master’s feet.” Mrs. Wilson’s voice grew 
softer as she added, Think, too, of the Sa- 
viour’s word of tender mindfulness and 
care for Mary, the Virgin Mother. How 
even, mid the suffering of the cross. He 
said to John, the well-beloved, ‘ Behold thy 
mother ; and from that hour that disciple 
took her unto his own Jiome^^ sheltering and 
shielding her. That’s what home pro- 
tection means, I think, and what all the 
women I ever knew needed. Anyway, home 
and* home duties, make a large enough 
place for you and me to fill, Mattie, for 
home means no narrow selfishness ; it means 
take the command ‘ As ye Would that men 
should do to you, do ye also to them like- 
wise.’ Just stretch it out as far as it will 
reach, and there is plenty to do, without 
wandering off in search of more, child. 
That reminds me, the broth I made for old 
farmer Holmes is ready to take ; you may 


92 


FOUNDATIONS. 


as well add a pat of that fresh butter ; he 
likes it before the salt seasons it/’’ 

Mrs. Merwin read the papers with much 
the same feeling as her friend, but with few- 
er words, though they led her to think 
much of what a woman’s work really is ; and 
her thoughts always made her more gentle, 
if it were possible, to her children ; more 
prayerful too, for prayer seemed to her the 
fullest of all woman’s blessing - winning 
work ; always made her more considerate 
and kind towards old Margaret, Joe and 
the farm laborers ; more guarded in inter- 
course with her neighbors, charitable in 
judgment and in word. Charity,” she used 
to say, “ is a wonderful secret of power in 
doing good. ‘ Speak kindly of every one, 
or not at all,’ that is what your father often 
said,” she would tell the girls. 

It was thus that Mattie and Gertrude 
were moulded by the home teachings, while 
the decided individuality of each was not 
lost but softened. In Gertrude, the love 
of idealizing and meaning - finding, which 


FOUNDATIONS. 


93 

might, under other circumstances, have 
made her life fanciful and visionary, was 
tempered by the common sense of her daily 
surroundings. 

In Mattie, enthusiasm and quickly formed 
conclusions were brought into submission 
to the higher motives which, through her 
mother’s teachings, governed her actions. 
But through the days of each, ran the 
golden thread of their own particular self- 
hood, touching their lives with the mystic 
something that crystallized all else into a 
clear, symmetrical whole. “Just as in a land- 
scape, there may be some bend of a river,” 
some bold outline of rugged rock, or curve 
of a line, some great oak tree, or graceful 
vine- wreathed elm, “ which, in itself, would 
be nothing, but which yet is the central point 
of the scene, making it unique and complete.” 
So Gertrude’s “little poem thoughts,” as 
simple Mrs. Wilson called them, shone 
through her practical every-day life, mak- 
ing it beautiful. And Mattie’s sweet faith, 
charity and love for all, helped to make 


94 


FOUNDATIONS. 


music that reached out beyond her quiet 
days (farther than ever she knew), for while 
it would have been symphony, if played 
only in the cadence taught by her mother, 
it became in connection with that which 
sprang from her own heart, “ a strain of 
original beaut}^” But the key note, the 
central light to all, of beauty and music 
these young girls gave forth to the world, 
was found in the “ old, old story,” the story 
which they read, written everywhere, of 
God’s love, of Christ, the Saviour, who 
said, “ Follow me and it was following 
Him they found the Music and the Light. 




CHAPTER X. 

T here are some lives which it seems 
as though God educated from infan- 
cy, for the trials and joys with which the 
after years surround them ; we see it in a 
large family, how one child is fitted for his 
life’s place, another for hers ; both starting 
from the same homestead, and yet led by 
such different paths. It was so with Mary 
and Gertrude Merwin. Mary from child- 
hood had been calm and quiet, subject to 
no sudden bursts of emotion, always doing 
for others, forgetful of self. Now that the 
time was soon coming when she was to 
leave her mother’s home for a little nest of 

( 95 ) 


FOUNBATIONS. 


96 

her own, the near approach to the change 
did not ruffle the tranquillity of her daily 
life, only as the weeks came and went, 
the happiness which blessed her was inten- 
sified, showing itself in an outgroAvth of 
more than her wonted loving thoughtful- 
ness and sympathy with her mother’s cares 
and the children. Through the after years 
this same calm, this same satisfied content 
with all God sent her was unbroken ; it 
seemed as though there were no need of 
severe personal trials to perfect her Chris- 
tian character, as there had been no need 
for discipline in childhood. Yet her moth- 
er often wondered, if the very peace of her 
outward life did not contain the germ of 
spiritual conflict, waged, so far below the 
surface, no human eye ever caught its strug- 
gles. For Mrs. Merwin felt, unless we 
know suffering in our owit hearts, we can 
but half know joy ; just as we need to feel 
the weariness of earth, before we can know 
the fullness of meaning in the heavenly rest 
promised — the rest which is “ serving day 


FOUNDATIONS. 


97 

and night,” with never a need to say, I am 
tired.” 

With Gertrude it was Very different : 
there was the strong consciousness of self, 
the eager longing for her own will to be 
accomplished, that had to be subdued ; the 
idealizing of her surroundings and friends, 
which the bright mid-day light so often dis- 
enchanted, making sorrow and disappoint- 
ment for her, where Mary would only have 
seen the ordinary way of things.” All 
this Mrs. Merwin knew would give Ger- 
trude hours of exquisite joy, but must give 
her, too, corresponding hours of bitter sor- 
row. It had been so from the time she was 
a little girl ; and now, standing, as she was, 
on the entrance of womanhood, her mother 
often trembled, thinking how her sensitive 
child would bear the harsh touch of real 
life. But He who knew the end from the 
beginning, was leading Gertrude gently, 
storing her mind and heart with sweet, 
pure memories; stamping love on every- 
thing, revealing to her hidden manna ^ that 
9 


FOUNDATIONS. 


98 

in the future days would be spirit nourish- 
ment, helping her to say of the trials that 
came “ They are blessing pains.” 

And little Mattie, by all the love, tender- 
ness and gladness which encircled her 
young life, was laying up stores, too, that 
would stretch sunshine over into cloud 
days. 

The mothers watched their children, won- 
dering sometimes why that winter seemed 
one unmarred season of sweet, innocent 
happiness, with never a shadow,” said 
Mattie; and then the musical gladness of 
her voice caught a low tone, touched a 
plaintive chord, for a minute, while she 
added, “ except Alfred does not write so 
often ; and, somehow, his letters do n’t seem 
quite the same, mother ; but, (for love is ever 
excuse-finding,) he is so busy, and June will 
come soon ; then we shall see him again.” 
With that thought, little Mattie went about 
her tasks, singing to herself snatches of old 
songs, that served as tangible outlines of 
the under-lying song singing in her heart. 


FOUNDATIONS, 


99 

So their days passed, each one helping to 
fill up some place in the mosaic of their 
years. Sometimes Gertrude referred to 
that fancy of theirs — the day after Alfred 
left home — and they wondered which part 
of the picture they were laying in now. 

It must be the ground - work,” said 
Gertrude, where dear little flowers grow ; 
don’t they Mattie? I wonder what the 
castle will be that will crown it all.” And 
the young things smiled at one another. 

But whatever their visions were, however 
far-reaching their thoughts, they always 
ended thinking of the safety verse^ as Ger- 
trude called it : Other foundation can no 
man lay than that which is laid — Christ.” 

Oh, Mattie, are we, indeed, building on 
the Rock?” she would ask; and then, in 
softened voices they would talk of the life 
hid in Christ ; the life all safe from outward 
changes ; the life that could not be crushed, 
‘‘even if our air castles fall, as so many 
people’s do,” said Mattie.” And thus the 
winter passed into the spring. 



CHAPTER XL 

I T was towards the close of a dreary 
March day that Bertie came running 
home from school, shouting, as he entered 
the house, “ Mother ! mother, here is a let- 
ter from Alfred !” The coming of Alfred’s 
weekly letter was looked forward to by the 
whole family with eagerness, even though 
the pages closely written, which came dur- 
ing the first weeks of his absence, had given 
place to one sheet, and that often not full, 
because, as he wrote, he was so pressed for 
time, and had so many engagements now.” 
Perhaps it was the thought of these many 
engagements, for which his letters home 

(loo) 


FOUNDATIONS. 


lOI 


were shortened, that had made the little 
lines of anxious care deepen so in Mrs. Mer- 
win’s face these last months; or, it may 
have been, the want of that something 
which a mother is the first to miss. What- 
ever her anxieties were, she kept them to 
herself, and only Mary guessed the post- 
scripts, which came so often, contained the 
secret of her mother’s frequent countings, 
over and over, of the lines of figures in the 
little brown book which she always carried 
with her to the village bank. Other things, 
too, Mary noticed, which passed unobserv- 
ed by Gertrude and the younger children — 
little unwonted economies in the household 
arrangements, her mother wearing her last 
year’s dress, pressing over her bonnet-rib- 
bons, saying they looked almost as fresh 
as ever they did, when Gertrude asked, 
‘^Why don’t you get new ones, mother?” 
Only trifles they were ; but Mary saw them 
all, and longed to speak to her mother of 
them — longed to share her burdens, and 
yet had said nothing, for she respected the 
9 *. 


102 


FOUNDATIOm. 


love and silence with which her mother 
shielded Alfred’s thoughtlessness, (surely it 
was nothing more,) even from a sister’s eyes. 
Beside this, Mary had other cares and 
thoughts. She was two years older than 
Alfred, and had been a womanly girl al- 
ways — motherly and care - taking, as the 
eldest child is apt to be, and on her devolv- 
ed many home duties. Then, too, there 
were piles of snowy-white linen (increasing 
all the time) in the press in her mother’s 
room, which, when June came, were to be 
carried not very far away, only over to the 
little cottage building (just at the turn of 
the road) where Mary w’as to be mistress. 
It was three years since she had promised 
Homer Grant to share his home. All that 
time he had worked patiently, laying by, 
week after week, something toward the 
fulfillment of the promise. Now the cottage 
was nearly comple):e, the tasteful furniture 
already selected, and Mary, though neg- 
lecting naught of her present duties for 
the future, was occupied every leisure min- 


FOUNDATIONS. 


103 

ute with the simple outfit which was being 
prepared at home. Mary thought it so 
bountiful, and was continually begging her 
mother to let her do without one thing or 
another ; but Mrs. Merwin always answer- 
ed with a loving kiss, saying, If your 
father were living, dear, it would be far 
more ; let me do the best I can for you.” 

The girls had gone that afternoon to the 
sewing society, which met at Mrs. Wilson’s, 
so Mrs. Merwin read Alfred’s letter alone, 
before she opened it, sending Bertie and 
Bessie out to play. Something in it made 
her very thoughtful, for she rested her head 
long upon her hand, after reading and re- 
reading it, ere she rose, and took from the 
drawer in the side-board, the little brown 
book, counting over for the second time 
that day, the lines of figures. Adding them 
up, she set apart the sum still needed to 
complete Mary’s wardrobe. Such a small 
margin was left, from which to draw for her 
own, Gertrude’s, and the younger children’s 
wants, how could she meet the amount 


104 


FOUNDATIONS. 


Alfred wrote begging her to send him? 
What could she do ? His letter hurt her so ; 
the very words in which he framed his re- 
quest, revealed to Mrs. Merwin, her boy 
had sadly changed : I’m uncommonly 

hard up,” he wrote. “ Send what you and the 
girls can spare, say fifty dollars, or more. I 
am sorry to ask, but what can a fellow do ?” 
It was not the lack of refinement in expres- 
sion that wounded Mrs. Merwin so deeply, 
but that Alfred, her son, should even in his 
thoughts, for a moment, sacrifice his sisters 
to his own comfort. Heavier became the 
shadow which had grown with every day 
of the new year, that March evening ; for 
the mother knew her boy had yielde 1 ; and 
yet he seemed so armed for the warfare, 
when he left her. Backward her mind turn- 
ed to the years of his childhood. Was Al- 
fred selfish then? Was he easily led astray? 
Had she been weak when firmness was need- 
ed ? Had she prayed earnestly enough that 
he might be kept from the evil of the world ? 
Question after question, did 'she ask of her 


FOUNDATIOm. 


105 

own heart, and of the past, trying to shield 
her child, by persuading herself many of 
his faults were the fruits of carelessness on 
her part (just as mothers always are trying 
to do, in their thoughts of wayward wander- 
ing children). Sitting there mid the gloom 
of the deepening twilight, little things came 
to her memory long forgotten. She went 
back to early days, when she stood in that 
room, grown so familiar now — a bride ; and 
with one of those strange, mystical freaks 
of memory, her present grief and care were 
blended in with great gladness. She saw it 
all, as then it appeared ; the little table 
with its snowy cloth, and places set for only 
two, and mid the pain of the present time, 
smile after smile flitted across Mrs. Mer- 
win’s face, as moonbeams light up the sea- 
wave, that has moaned only an hour before 
over shipwrecked mariner. After days she 
thought of too, when Mary, their blue-eyed 
baby, came ; and then her thoughts turned 
to another birthnight, in the first of Autumn's 
months. She remembered, as though it 


io6 


FOUNDATIONS. 


were but yesterday, her husband’s whisper- 
ed thanksgiving for their first-born son, his 
murmured words of prayer for the little 
soul just entered into life, and how she joined 
in the whisper, “For Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

And the Bible says, “ The promises of 
God in Him, are yea and amen.” Could 
she doubt He had heard and would answer 
that prayer of earnest seeking, for a bless- 
ing on their child? Were her husband’s 
prayers unheard ? Her own, it might be they 
were but the weak yearnings of a faith al- 
ways so far behind his ; but surely his were 
heard ; surely they would be answered by 
that Christ who said, “ Ask and ye shall re- 
ceive;” and yet — and then came to that 
quiet woman, as it comes at one time or an- 
other to every follower of Him, the dark- 
ness of the hiding of the Father’s face. 
Her faith, it seemed gone ; prayer, it seem- 
ed unheard. Falling on her knees, she 
bowed before Him, weeping in bitterness 
of soul. No words she spoke ; but, are not 
such tears prayers ? And while she knelt, 


FOmWATIONS. 


107 

struggling with the tempter who bade her 
doubt God’s promises, the angels came 
and ministered unto her. 

Half an hour later, when Mrs. Merwin rose 
from her knees, she was a different woman ; 
older, so much older ; for such hours of an- 
guish age the soul as years do not. But, 
on her face was a calm peace, in her heart 
was comfort ; whatever Alfred’s future 
might be, it was committed to Him- who 
had promised, ‘H will never leave thee nor 
forsake thee and yet very falteringly, al- 
most stammeringly, she said, half aloud, as 
though to seal the truth in her heart by the 
utterance of her'lips, “ Though He slay me, 
yet will I trust Him.” In that hour, she 
had taken up her Cross, the Cross oi wait- 
ing and trusting amid darkness ; leaving 
her prayer, and the prayer of her boy’s 
father with Him, even if the answer came 
not to her in this world. 

Then she lit the lamp, folded up Alfred’s 
letter, laid the little brown book away, went 
to the window, drew the curtains, opened 


I 08 FOUNBATIOm. 

the door, calling the children, who lingered 
out, never caring, in their merry play, for 
the growing darkness : Bertie, Bessie, 

come in.” 

Just while walking across the room, just 
while doing these loving ministries of a 
mother, making home cheerful for her girls, 
who would be coming soon, calling her lit- 
tle ones into shelter and warmth, she laid 
away her dreams that had been so many 
and so bright of all that Alfred was to be, 
(it takes such a minute to break the gossa- 
mer thread with which we weave our 
dreams for the future) ; and yet in her heart 
the promise was singing, singing loudly, 
'‘Trust in the Lord, and verily thou shalt 
be fed.” Mrs. Merwin knew nothing of 
theology ; only one or two of the volumes 
which made the “ minister’s library” in 
Dominie Merwin’s time, had she read ; but 
she well knew the comfort and repose, 
where only a little while before conflict and 
doubt had been, was the food promised. 



CHAPTER XII. 

I T was quite late before Mary and Ger- 
trude returned. Bessie had gone to 
bed, and Bertie was very sleepy, though he 
tried manfully to keep awake, saying, “ I 
don’t want to leave you alone, mother;” 
but glad enough was he to kiss good-night, 
when the girls came. They had much to 
tell. The new minister’s wife was there,” 
said Gertrude. “ She seems hardly any 
older than Mary.” “ She just answers my 
ideal of a ^ Christian woman,’ ” joined in 
Mary ; “ she was so undisturbed when old 
Mrs. Parker handed her the Bible, saying, 
in such a formal way, ‘ It is the custom 
lo (109) 



no 


Foum)ATiom 


to open these meetings with prayer and 
reading of Scripture.’ ” “ Yes,” exclaim- 

ed Gertrnde, “ my cheeks grew quite 
crimson. I thought she must mind it so 
much. I think she did, too ; for the rosy 
color flushed up into her face. She se- 
lected such a beautiful chapter, mother, 
only not at all like those usually read at 
sewing society. It was the 35th of Isaiah. 
Then she knelt, and offered a simple, heart- 
felt prayer, but her voice trembled. I was 
so glad afterwards, when old Mrs. Parker 
went over and actually kissed her, saying, 
‘ Thank you, child, for you seem scarce 
more to me, though you are a married wo- 
man, and our minister’s wife at that. Well, 
well, “ out of the mouths of babes He has 
perfected praise.” ’ 

“ Mattie and I were talking about the 
chapter Mrs. Lyman read, when she brought 
her work, and asked if she might join our 
little group. Kate Field and Emma Mason 
were with us, you remember, Mary, when 
we sat over in the corner. I think she 


FOUNDATIONS. 


Ill 


overheard what Mattie was saying, for al- 
most immediately she said, ‘ Do you enjoy, 
reading Isaiah? I do very much.’ You 
know Mattie is apt to be timid before 
strangers, but she was not so in the least 
with Mrs. Lyman, replying, without any 
constraint, ‘Yes, only I don’t understand 
it very well.’ ‘ I do nor. think we should 
expect to understand all the Bible ; do you, 
dear?’ she answered. ‘Even David, the 
Israel singer, wrote, “ Such knowledge is 
too wonderful for me ; I cannot attain unto 
it and Paul, the brave old man, who 
fought such a good fight of faith, tells us, 
“ Now we see through a glass darkly. Now, 
we know in part.” ’ Then she said the 
Bible seemed to her ‘ like a casket made of 
most precious stones and costly gems, 
banded together by golden links and cas- 
ings, and the casket filled with treasures 
from many lands, each perfect of its kind — 
every stone traced with a truth and mean- 
ing of its own, which long years of patient 
study would hardly suffice to quite unfold. 


II2 


FOTINDATIONS. 


even to the diligent student ; and yet, the 
stones, when held up toward the light, 
whether by the hand of sage or child, al- 
ways revealed something, always caught a 
glimmer from the far-off sky, and with 
every change of position, a new radiance, 
just as we do with Bible words/ Not wait 
ing for our reply, she continued, ‘ Take but 
this verse, from the book of Isaiah, Fear 
thou not, for I am with thee,” and let us 
hold it up, as we would a precious stone, 
where the Light of Life falls on it, and 
trace the threefold golden cord that binds 
us through that one promise to the Saviour. 
“ Fear thou not, for / am with thee.” With 
what light that illumines the darksome way. 

God with us,” He who knows what is best 
for each of us. Then again look at it : 
“ Fear thou not, for I am with thee ;” with 
all those who fear Him ; especially near 
those who suffer, leading them by pain, if 
patiently endured, into a closer, more beau- 
tiful fellowship with Him, who was “ the 
man of sorrows.” Once more think of the 


FOUNDATIONS. 


II3 

promise, and see it radiant with light : “ Fear 
thou not, for I am with thee^' not merely 
with all men, but He comes to us, as indi- 
viduals, so that we need never fear we shall 
be neglected or forgotten. I have only 
pointed out the promise shining in dark- 
ness,’ she said, as she folded up her work, 
‘ but its Light is just as beautiful, just as 
needful, for our happiest, as our saddest 
hours.’ Then she smiled, and asked, ^ Do you 
think I have been preaching you a sermon, 
girls ?’ adding in a low voice, ^ God grant 
He may be felt near each one of you.’ Be- 
fore we could reply she was gone into the 
other room, where the old ladies were. I 
think I never knew any one so winning be- 
fore.” Mrs. Merwin only answered, “ I am 
very glad, dear,” and went hastily from the 
room. 

It seemed so wonderful this conversation 
repeated by Gertrude ; almost like a heaven- 
ly message sent to her^ the words came, 
‘‘ Fear thou not,” as she said them over to 
herself on her way upstairs to give Bertie 
10* 


FOUNDATIONS, 


1 14 

her good-night kiss, with the God bless 
you,’' without which the day seemed incom- 
plete to her children — as a prayer without 
its Amen seal of ‘‘ So be it.” 

Mother looks so pale to-night, do you 
think she is not feeling well,” asked Ger- 
trude. Mary’s reply was interrupted by 
Mrs. Merwin’s return. “ Did Alfred’s let- 
ter come to-day, mother?” inquired Ger- 
trude. “Yes; he is quite well, and sends 
love to you all. I will not read it aloud, as 
it was written only for my eyes;” and the 
mother’s voice trembled. “ Oh ! I am 
sorry, I do miss his letters so much. What 
shall we dp, if being away from home 
changes Alfred ?” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mrs. Merwin, “ we have 
not prayed enough for your brother, that 
he may be kept from the evil of the world. 
Think much of Alfred, my children, when 
you pray ^ Lead us not into temptation ; de- 
liver us from evil.’ ” 

“ Do you think temptation always means 
sin ?” asked Mary. “ Why, no,” interrupted 


FOUNDATIONS. 


II5 

Gertrude. “ Don’t you remember, how in 
James’ Epistle it is written, ‘ My brethren, 
count it all joy when ye fall into divers 
temptations.’ What temptations does this 
verse refer to, mother ?” ‘‘I think,” said 

Mrs. Merwin, ^‘the verse alludes to afflic- 
tions and trials, which we should welcome, 
as they loosen our hold on the things of this 
world. Trials of faith and patience, which 
teach the soul to wait and trust.'' ‘‘ You 
make me think, mother, of the little hymn 
dear old grandmamma used to say so often 
those last weeks of her life : 

‘ Trials prove and strengthen patience. 

Trials purge the dross away, 

Trials sweeten expectations, 

* Of a bright and glorious day.’ ” 

I beg your pardon. Ma’am,” said Joe, en- 
tering the room, it is getting kind o’ late, 
and if ye be minded to read now, me and 
Margaret will be glad.” Almost ten 
o’clock,” said Gertrude. '' How long we 
have talked !” Then the chapter was read. 


Ii6 


FOUNBATlOm. 


and the family separated^ for the night. 
Gertrude slept almost as soon as her head 
touched the pillow, but Mary went to her 
mother’s door, and gently knocked, hardly 
waiting to hear the low permission, “ Come 
in, dear,” ere she entered. “Tell me all 
about it,” she said, laying her head on her 
mother’s shoulder. “ Is Alfred in trouble ?” 
“ Mary, dear,” answered Mrs. Merwin, 
“ do you remember the parable I read the 
night before your brother left home. It will 
tell you my sorrow, child, for it will tell 
you of the man who built upon the sand, 
just as our Alfred has done. Pray for him, 
Mary.” 




CHAPTER XIII. 

W AS Mrs. Merwin unaecessarily anx- 
ious about Alfred ? It would have 
seemed so to any casual observer who 
noticed the daily increasing favor he won 
from employers and companions. Then, 
too, he was becoming a great favorite in 
the society to which his aunt and uncle in- 
troduced him. Besides this, there were eve- 
nings spent with Mr. Burnham ; evenings 
after which Alfred was always more thought- 
ful, more like the boy who left his mother 
that autumn morning. Outwardly, he had 
changed, certainly. “ Wonderfully im- 
proved in appearance,” his uncle said. 

(117) 



Ilg FOUNDATIONS. 

What was the something his mother missed 
from his letters ? the want of which Mattie 
felt too, for it was that which made her 
restless one Tuesday afternoon in June, 
when he was to come home for the first 
visit. I cannot understand it,” she said to 
herself. have longed so for this day, 
and now it has come, I am almost fright- 
ened and with nervous fingers, little Mat- 
tie, who had never thought much before of 
becoming, or unbecoming, tried on one 
ribbon after another. The blue looked so 
pale, the scarlet so bright, which should 
she choose? With girlish irresolution she 
ran downstairs where her mother was, ex- 
claiming, Tell me, mother, which hand 
will you have ?” holding the bits of ribbon 
behind her. Mrs. Wilson laughed. ^‘You 
foolish child,” she replied, “ I ’ll choose the 
left.” ‘'That’s the scarlet,” said Mattie. 
“ Well, I will wear it now, any way.” And 
she darted off upstairs again, just to fasten 
on the simple bow, and band the wealth of 
curls with a confining ribbon. These wer^ 


FOUNDATIONS. 


II9 

the only adornments to the pure white of 
her muslin frock. 

Three hours before, Joe and Bertie had 
driven by, on their way to the landing, to 
meet Alfred. It was almost time for them 
to be coming back, and Mattie, with eager 
haste, crossed the meadow- lot, that she 
might see Alfred on his return, from the 
very place where she called “ good-by” to 
him ; only that was in the morning sun- 
shine, and now it was towards twilight. 

Yes, there they come,” she said, softly, 
and, for a minute, bright little Mattie stood 
still, with the smothering weight about her 
heart, which comes with great joy as well 
as with sorrow. But it was only a minute 
ere her clear voice was calling, “ Welcome 
home !” and Alfred was replying in accents 
glad as her own. Then the turn in the 
road hid them from her. 

‘‘ Oh, how wrong I have been,” said Mat- 
tie, “ to even think he had changed !” Had 
she been mistaken ? 

Why is it so much easier to tell of sor- 


120 


FOUNDATIONS. 


row than of joy ? Is it that we know it bet- 
ter ? Or is it that there is something almost 
sacred in the deep, restful gladness of the 
return of a loved one home that wakens 
memories so heart-breaking? We shrink 
from putting them into words, because so 
few are unlearned in the loneliness which 
whispers, There is one gone who never 
will return.” 

These tender memories, while they en- 
circle home-coming with gladness, are 
like the rays of pale, golden light, that 
halo the moon, heralding the rain-clouds 
near, just as some joys, shining things 
though they may be, are but preludes of 
our tears. 

Then there are so few words for joy, com- 
pared with those that express sorrow ; glad, 
joyful, satisfied, happy, jubilant, exultant — 
we soon exhaust the list ; but sorrow — it is 
written in words that multiply one another 
in quick succession — pain, grief, anguish, 
agony, suffering, disappointment, and, alas ! 
how many more sorrowful words there are ! 


FOUNDATIONS. 


I2I 


Only once, of that sacred life unfolded to 
us in the Gospel story, is it said, Jesus re- 
joiced in spirit.” 



II 



CHAPTER XIV. 

I T was a beautiful cloudless morning that 
• dawned on Mary’s bridal -day. Ger- 
trude and Mattie had been occupied for a 
week past, yet very simple were the prepa- 
rations for the wedding festivities. Though 
the house looked like a bower of flowers, 
every one said. It was the season for them, 
to be sure,” the old people remarked ; but 
where did they find so many ?” The girls 
were busy from early morning ; the mantel- 
piece, which looked so awkward and high, 
Gertrude thought, they covered with moss 
Bertie brought from the woods. From it 
they festooned the wild honeysuckle (that 
( 1 22 ) 



FOUNDATIONS. 


123 


blossom of delicate odor); in among the 
fresh green of the moss they placed little 
clumps of violets, lilies of the valley, with 
here and there flowers of brighter color. 
The evenings of the by -gone week they 
had spent in twining long wreaths of 
ever-greens, which Alfred helped them 
fasten over windows, book-case and pic- 
tures. 

‘‘ I do n’t want any straight lines about 
it,” said Gertrude, as she looped up garland 
after garland. 

Between the windows, where Mary was 
to stand, they had made, with much pains- 
taking, and not without the aid of Joe (who 
entered quite into the spirit of it after he 
had been made to understand what Miss 
Gertrude meant by an arch), a little temple, 
Mattie said it was — just a bower of green 
Gertrude had called it — “ a bower of flow- 
ers, now,” she said, as she twisted, in-and- 
out with the evergreens, roses and hyacinths, 
exclaiming, The dear little apple-blossoms, 
they are so late this year; we will have 


124 


FOUNBATIOm. 


them, too, just blushing, as they are, with 
the faintest touch of pink, as though from 
sensitiveness, at proclaiming the fruit they 
hold for us !” 

So the girls worked until it was time to 
dress ; then the last touches were given, the 
last look taken, and “ Is n’t it beautiful,” said 
by them all, though in different words ; for 
old Margaret exclaimed, ‘‘Well, I reckon 
this is worthy of the Queen of England !” 
Joe added, “It beats all ever I see; great 
success now, ain’t it. Miss Gertrude ? ” 
Little Bessie clapped her hands at the 
“ beautiful garden in the room.” Bertie, 
with boyish dignity, expressed himself sat- 
isfied with the result, and glad he brought 
that moss, “ though it was a day’s work.” 
Mrs. Merwin looked beyond the outward 
show of evergreens and flowers which 
graced her child’s wedding-day; looked 
backward, too, blending the onward with 
the backward look : it was this, which made 
her say, as she kissed Mary, looking at her 
through tear-dimmed eyes, “ God grant. 


FOUNDATIONS. 


125 

dear, your married life may be as happy as 
your mother’s.” 

Then Mrs. Merwin slipped away from the 
young people, going into her own room for 
a little while, quieting her heart, which 
ached from the heavy pain of parting from 
her child, by thoughts of Mary’s joy, by 
committing her and her future to the Heav- 
enly Father. That quiet half hour, alone in 
the morning, (No, not alone, for He hath 
said, Lo, I am with you alwaj/”) gave her 
strength for all the day was to bring — and 
take. 

Mary only thanked Gertrude and Mattie 
with a loving kiss, and just a whispered 
word or two, in a voice which trembled, 
even though she said, “ I am so happy.” 
Alfred was lavish in praises, so lavish, Mat- 
tie running home hastily “ to dress,” wished 
to herself he had not said quite so much, 
‘^it seemed as though he were talking to 
the young ladies he had learned to know, 
since he left home, and not just to Gertrude 
and me.” 

ii^ 


126 


FOUNDATIONS. 


At noon time, the guests began to assem- 
ble. Homer Grant’s father, mother, sisters, 
and brothers, such a family of them as there 
were, scattered all the country side over. 
Mary had but few relatives, beyond the home 
circle. Her father’s brother had sent a costly 
remembrance by Alfred, with a note of re- 
gret that he could not be present. There 
were several aunts and uncles of her moth- 
er’s, and one cousin ; that was all. “ But I 
have friends just as dear,” she said, “as if they 
were relations,” when Mrs. Wilson came in- 
to her room, saying cheerfully, “ I want an- 
other kiss Avhile you are still Mary Merwin.” 
All the neighbors came, and that included 
nearly all the village people, for neighbor- 
hood, in that quiet country place, was not 
a thing of avenues and squares. Mary never 
looked more lovely and peaceful than she 
did that morning ; the wedding dress was 
of India muslin, (sent by her aunt from the 
city), which fell in graceful drapery folds 
about her ; the veil, a gossamer, almost invi- 
sible thing, “ just like the cobwebs on the 


FOUNDATION'S, 


127 


rose-bush, in the morning,” little Bessie 
thought it ; it hardly concealed the brown 
hair, which was coiled with no artificial aid 
about her shapely head. Gertrude fastened 
it with white rosebuds, and silvery lined 
geranium leaves. Then the minister came. 

It was the first time he had performed the 
marriage service. It may have been this 
which made him so tender, or it may have 
been the presence of his own young wife, 
scarce more than a bride of three or four 
months; but, whatever the cause, as old 
Mrs. Parker said “ It was an uncommon 
holy wedding.” And so the lives of Homer 
Grant and Mary Merwin were sealed in a 
companionship never to be broken, for sure- 
ly, such pure love as theirs is a something ^ 
which lives on, even in that land where 
they “ neither marry nor are given in mar- 
riage.” 

By and by the wedding cake was cut, a 
loaf so generous, it seemed as though it 
never would grow small. Gertrude and 
Mattie, after distributing to the guests, made 


128 


FOUNDATIONS. 


Up parcel after parcel, to be sent home to 
one and another, either too old, or too 
young, to come to the wedding. The 
hearty good wishes were said in words of 
no idle congratulation ere the company 
separated. The last one had gone, while 
the sun was high in the still cloudless sky, 
and Mary had laid off the pure white of 
her morning and girlhood’s costume, for the 
dress of delicate lavender muslin, which 
gives you a womanly, older air already, I do 
declare,” said Gertrude, as they came down 
stairs together. 

Then, standing on the door step, shading 
her eyes because the sunlight was so bright, 
Mrs. Merwin watched Mary, just as she 
had watched Alfred pass down the gar- 
den walk, pass through the garden gate, 
to begin life outside of her childhood’s 
home. 

Up the road they walked, Mary and her 
husband, toward the cottage, where the 
door was standing wide open. This was 
their bridal tour. Just the walk by the 


FOUNDATIONS. 


129 

grassy path, with its bank sides gemmed 
with early flowers; wild roses nodding 
their heads as they passed ; little blue-eyed 
anemones and violets lingering beyond the 
spring time in the sheltered woods ; golden 
buttercups and daisies, with the clover field 
beyond, a sea of honey-laden blossoms. By 
their side, crept along, with song-like ripple, 
the stream, which led out where the water 
lilies grew ; and over all the sunshine fell. 
Thus they came to their home. 

Mother, was it wrong?” asked Bertie, 
when Mrs. Merwin stood by his bed-side. 1 
was over at Mary’s (so strangely the child’s 
quick use of the new expression fell on 
the mother’s ear), when they went into the 
house, and, do you' know, the first thing 
they did before they looked at a thing, was 
to kiss one another; then taking hold of 
Mary’s hand, and keeping hold all the time, 
Homer and she knelt down and prayed. I 
stole away because I kind of thought they 
would rather* be alone. I did n’t mean to 
peep, but the door was open, and I could n’t 


130 


FOUNDATIONS. 


help looking. Was it wrong?” So sleepy 
was Bertie, that having confessed, he laid 
his head on his pillow, and fell asleep even 
while his mother was replying. 




CHAPTER XV. 

HE moon was at its full that June 



i night, making the evening light only 
a softened reflection of the golden sunshine 
of the day. Gertrude was sitting on the 
doorstep when Mrs. Merwin came down- 
stairs. Hearing her mother, she called, 
“ Come out here, mother, it is as bright as 
day,” adding, as her mother joined her, “ I 
am so lonely already for Mary, what shall 
we do without her?” Mrs. Merwin made 
no spoken reply to Gertrude’s question, but 
she sat down by her side, and soon they fell 
into quiet talk of the day, and how lovely 
Mary was as a bride. ‘‘ Though not more 
lovely than she always is,” said Gertrude. 


(13O 


132 


FOUNDATIOm. 


'‘Has Alfred gone over to farmer Wil- 
son’s ?” asked Mrs. Merwin. Yes, he said 
he would not be gone long.” And then 
they talked again of Mary, till the mother 
interrupted, saying, " It is late. I wonder 
he does not come. You had better go to bed, 
Gertrude. I will wait.” “ Indeed, you will 
not, alone, mother ; but hark ! I hear him 
now ; and I will run away, because I know 
you want Alfred all to yourself, mother, 
dear.” Gertrude passed through the hall, 
and upstairs ; then the moonlight was so 
beautiful, and the excitement of the day 
had been so much, she knew she could not 
quiet herself to sleep, so she sat down on 
the upper stair, beside the hall window, 
which was open wide, thinking to wait for 
her mother, meanwhile, dreaming to herself, 
all unconscious, sitting there in the moon- 
light, that she was building her last air 
castle for many a month to come. Often 
afterwards, Gertrude recalled just how 
every thing looked ; the mountains, clear 
and almost hard in outline ; the stars. 


FOUNDATIONS. 


133 


which seemed dim and far-off in the sky, 
silvery and shining with light ; the stretch 
of pine trees, dark and gloomy with shad- 
ows. This was the far away look. The near 
showed her the glimmer of Mary’s little 
cottage home, where the rays of light 
seemed to congregate, falling with never a 
shadow on its white painted panels. The 
chimneys of Mattie’s house she saw, too, and 
nearer still, their own garden, filled with 
shadowy reflections, making duplicates of 
shrubs, flowers, and vine ; tracing pictures 
of them in lines of strange delicacy and 
softened sober tint, on gravel-walk, grass, 
and garden fence. 

Gertrude saw it all ; but her moonlight 
pictures were painted in colors caught from 
thoughts that roved far out beyond the 
scene before her; ^ vision of “ some day,” 
when she would leave home, just as Mary 
had done. The young girl smiled, for the 
with whom ” was no very puzzling ques- 
tion. And then, away over eastward, she 
journeyed in fancy ; saw a little room, just 


12 


FOUKDATIONS. 


134 

like dozens of rooms in that gloomy college 
building, which was so prison-like outside, 
so cheerful in ; saw a little table, with 
lighted lamp, and by the table “the some 
one'^ sitting, bending over books, lost in 
diligent study, spite the moonlight of the 
June night. She smiled again, a smile 
which lingered long, and asked herself. 
Why ? And the answer was, because, mid 
the study and absorption of a scholar’s life, 
she knew not many hours came and went 
without thoughts of her finding their way 
into that room. It was this that made her 
smile ; this, and the knowledge that when 
the thoughts came, little answering thoughts 
were sent on speedy wing over the miles 
that lay between that distant town and the 
quiet farm house — memories which bridged 
over rivers and mountains, hills and plains, 
not in the tangible form of those white- 
winged messengers which are sometimes so 
crumpled in the crowded mail-bag journey, 
but just heart greetings which are felt with- 
out words. How did she know all this? 


FOUNDATIONS. 


135 


she asked again. The moon had travelled 
quite round, and was shining all about her, 
as she whispered to herself once more, pre- 
facing her reply with a because — Because 
he said he would think of me amid his books 
and study ; and ” — the secret of the smile, 
it was found just there — “ and I trust him.” 

So she sat and dreamed on, till the bark- 
ing of a dog down in the village roused 
her ; then she arose, almost with a start, 
and wondered whether it was very late, 
shivering with the chill night-air, even of 
that summer time. She heard her mother 
and Alfred still talking. Was it fancy, or was 
there something in her mother’s voice she 
had never heard before ? And she shivered 
again. Then came Alfred’s reply in broken 
words. The howling of the dog must 
have aroused them, too, for her mother 
came into the hall just then, and, quite plain- 
ly, Gertrude heard her say, You had bet- 
ter try to sleep, now,” and the voice was 
still, just as though it halted for a moment, 
ere it added, “ my son.” 


FOUNDATIONS. 


136 

A minute after, Alfred passed hastily up- 
stairs, never noticing Gertrude. It all fright- 
ened her, the quick transition from her beau- 
tiful dream, her mother’s voice, Alfred’s 
face, as he passed in the moonlight. What 
had happened? Was anything the matter? 
And then, in the stillness of the hour, she 
heard the sound of low sobbing. Surely it 
was her mother. Never pausing to think, 
Gertrude hastened down-stairs into the sit- 
ting-room. Yes, it was she, standing all 
alone in the place where Mary stood in the 
morning. Gertrude threw her arms around 
her mother, eagerly asking, “ Tell me, 
mother, what has happened?” You here, 
my child !” and Mrs. Merwin’s voice grew 
strangely calm. “We will close the house 
now, it is very late.” Then they locked 'the 
doors, shut the windows and went up-stairs 
together. In reply to Gertrude’s question, 
Mrs. Merwin only said, “ Do not ask me 
to tell you more, my child, than that Alfred 
has been sorely tried and he has yielded.” 



CHAPTER XVL 

S OMETHING very sad it surely must 
have been that Alfred told his mother, 
to have called forth the grief which Mrs. 
Merwin, with all her natural reserve, was 
powerless to conceal from Gertrude ; yet it 
was only the oft-repeated story to which 
mother’s hearken— of temptation yielded to 
— of straying from the path of strict recti- 
tude, step by step, till the narrow way 
which divides right from wrong is left far 
off amid boyhood days. Scarcely a year 
had it taken to do this ; and through it all 
Alfred had known “ the safety place,” when 
the billows of temptation were wildest, the 

(137) ^ 


12 ' 


FOUNDATIONS. 


138 

sea of allurement most tranquil and inviting, 
Avas only to be found in building on the 
Rock, in resting securely, because the 
foundation was not in his own strength, but 
on the Corner Stone — Christ. And yet know- 
ing this he built on the sand ; and though 
the structure was, to casual lookers on, fair 
and promising, he kneAV himself it was hol- 
low and foundationless. Sitting there, on 
the old door -step, home again with his 
mother, a great longing came into his soul 
to be again the boy he left her. It was this 
which led him to seek the relief of telling 
her all about it ; just as, when a little child, 
he used frankly to confess the faults com- 
mitted, always sure with the punishment, 
tender sympathy would be blended. And 
so an hour later, the fears that had made 
Mrs. Merwin’s heart anxious for the last 
few months, had become realities. 

It was not a long story Alfred had to tell ; 
it began only with little things ; the first mis- 
spent Sabbath ; the going night after night 
to places of amusement; the borrowing 


FOUNDATIONS. 


139 


‘‘just small sums” from Frank Howe and 
the others. So from one thing he was led 
on to another. Then he told of going to 
Mr. Burnham, who helped him out of those 
first difficulties, with never a word of re- 
proach, and who won from him the half 
promise to come to him if in need again, 
rather than borrow from any young friend ; 
who made no allusion to why he needed the 
money, only said, “Do not forget our talk, 
Alfred, that first day we met, of the seed 
that fell on the good ground, and the fruit 
it bore.” “ But,” Alfred continued, “ I 
could not go to him again, and the fellows 
urged me so, and they seemed such little 
things, till the debts increased so ; then I 
wrote home for money ; so it went on, till 
at last I made up my mind I would not 
think of you, mother, the girls and ' Mattie. 
Then I consented to try, just for once, the 
game of chance, at which the other fellows 
made enough to keep them out of trouble. 
I won those first nights, and then, mother — I 
lost all.” 


140 


FOUNDATIONS. 


To Mrs. Merwin the tale of Alfred’s wan- 
derings seemed sad enough, when he had 
gone thus far, for it revealed how he had 
trodden down the principles which she had 
thought so firmly rooted in his heart (only 
trodden down, not crushed and killed ; but, 
when they were to upspring again, that was 
hidden from the mother; still her faith 
clung to the promise, “Wait on the Lord 
and He shall bring it to pass ”). 

She thought Alfred’s story ended, for he 
was silent many minutes ere he resumed, in 
a voice fuller of pain than it had been before, 
“ And now, I never can be the same, mother. 
It is that which hurts me so. Ever}^ thing 
seems changed since that night ; I did not 
know how much changed, till I came home 
to you — till I saw Mattie.” And he bowed 
his head on his hands. The pale moonlight 
shone in flickering, broken rays through 
the vine-covered porch, falling about the 
mother and her son, the silvery rays from 
the far-off sky coming like winged mes- 
sengers, laden to the mother with the whis- 


FOUNDATIONS. 


I4I 

per, Be of good cheer,” The Lord is 
mindful of His own.” 

From Alfred’s last words, Mrs. Merwin 
understood the restlessness of his manner ; 
understood why he had striven to keep up 
a gay, bantering conversation with Gertrude 
and Mattie ; why he had avoided being 
alone with her till that evening, when she 
waited for him ; knew why the cheerfulness, 
which made those who only looked at the 
surface, say How Alfred has improved !” 
seemed to her assumed, just as it had done 
to Gertrude and Mattie, and to others be- 
side them, for farmer Wilson shook his head 
and said “ I like Alfred’s old manner the 
best,” and Joe, though he said it not, thought 
much the same. 

I never can be the same, mother.” Over 
and over he repeated the words — such bitter 
words they were — revealing to them both 
the ideal with which he left home all mar- 
red, never to be his former self ; never again 
to look backward on self-respect unsullied. 
There is the agony of wrong doing, which 


142 


FOUNDATIONS. 


changes the cool, dewy freshness of many 
a young life into the dry scorching heat 
of mid-summer, while still their years are 
in the spring time. Recognizing this, Al- 
fred and his mother sat that June night, mid 
the ruins of their “ castles in the air.” I 
built upon the sand, mother ; not the rock 
and again he repeated “ I never can be the 
same.” 

Only simple words his mother chose to 
comfort him, and they Avere very few. She 
did not speak of his wandering ; she did not 
upbraid, and tell him of her own sorrow ; 
but woman -like, with gentle touch she 
took his hand into her own, tenderly ca- 
ressing it — the hand of her first-born 'son — 
the hand she had loved so long and well, 
ever since the days when it was a dimpled, 
child hand, when with baby touch it nest- 
led into hers ; so changed now it looked, 
the strong hand of his early manhood ; and 
his mother held it with as tender a clasp 
as if never he had gone astray, and the 
moonbeams fell on the hands, resting one 


FOUKDATIONS. 


143 


in the other. Was it strange that a ray of 
unshadowed light played about the little 
ring the mother wore, the golden band, 
growing so slender from long wear, that an- 
other hand — the hand of Alfred’s father — 
had placed upon her finger. “And he pray- 
ed for our boy,” — that was the thought in 
Mrs. Merwin’s heart, as softly she said, “ The 
Rock is still near you, my child ; build again, 
choosing the only abiding foundation ; and 
remember the promise, ‘As far as the east 
is from the west, so far will He remove our 
transgressions from us ‘ Like as a father 
pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth 
them that fear Him.’ And His pardon of 
our sins for the Saviour’s sake is, ‘ They 
shall be remembered no more,’ — ‘ mention- 
ed no more.’ ” 

After that, they talked for a little while 
of Alfred’s need. The debts should all be 
paid, his mother promised. Then the sound 
of the dog, barking down in the village, 
which startled Gertrude, roused them too, 
and Alfred and his mother parted. 


144 


FOUNDATIONS. 


When Alfred reached his room, he stood 
long by the window, looking out on the 
calm summer night, looking on nature, so 
restful and so resting, so unlike his own 
restless self. Gentle influences, the pleading 
prayers of his mother, were about him. 
He knew her longing for him ; he knew his 
need was to come now to the Saviour — to 
come all unworthy as he was ; knowing 
that if he came in humble penitence, for 
Christ’s sake, the “ sins, like scarlet, should 
be white as snow,” washed in His pardon- 
ing, forgiving love. Once again a new life 
stretched before him. Would he enter the 
open Door ? — the Way, of which Christ said, 
“ I am the Door'' Why did he delay ? Why 
did he hearken to the voice speaking from 
his own life, saying, “ You never can be the 
-same ; you are all unworthy ; you may be- 
come nobler, calmer, taught by this early 
experience, chastened by the remembrance 
of these early wanderings; but never the 
same. And, with that thought, the bitter- 
ness came into his soul again, and his cry 


FOUNDATIONS. 


145 

was not, “ God be merciful to me a sinner,’’ 
but / will be worthy of them all.” So Al- 
fred began to build once more on the sand, 
seeking to make himself worthy in his own 
strength ; turning from the One who alone 
is strength, he entered on another life, but 
a restless, unsatisfying life of ambition, 
crowned, though it was, with outward suc- 
cess, as all lives are that know not the 
secret of rest and peace found only in the 
shadow of the Rock.” 

Gertrude did not leave her mother till 
the moonlight had given place to the early 
gray of dawn ; then, for in that night 
mother and daughter seemed to have 
changed places, she knocked at old Mar- 
garet’s door, told her Mr. Alfred must leave 
at six o’clock, and it was time to wake up. 
A little later, she called to Alfred, “Wake 
up, dear Alfred, the sun has risen.” 

It was very hurried that morning-parting. 
Alfred did not come down till late, the chil- 
dren were too tired to rouse themselves, 
and he had to leave good-by kisses on sleep- 

13 


FomwATiom. 


146 

ing faces. Joe '(an unusual thing with him) 
was impatient, and sure they would miss 
the boat unless Master Alfred made haste. 
So there was no time for many words — just 
a kiss and good-by to Gertrude, a smother- 
ed sob, as he laid his head on his mother’s 
shoulder, while she softly whispered, God 
bless and keep you, my son,” and he was 
gone. 

Mrs. Merwin watched them till quite out 
of sight ; then, with something in her look 
which overawed and made Gertrude silent, 
she turned and passed through the garden, 
over the little stile into the meadow, on be- 
yond to the quiet place on the hill -side, 
where the white stone caught the first rays 
of the morning’s sunlight — where, the 
flowers were in bloom. ' 




CHAPTER XVII. 

H OW did Mattie pass that beautiful 
moonlight night which followed 
Mary’s cloudless wedding day ? With the 
twilight Alfred came, and they v/alked to- 
gether up and down the lane where they 
walked the night before he left home, in 
the autumn, talking just as they did then, in 
low voices. But it all seemed so different. 
And Avhy ? That was what Mattie asked 
herself, sitting alone later in the evening, 
in the broad seat of the window, in her little 
room, where the elm-tree branches made 
a bower of green just outside — made little 
safe hiding-places, where the birds built 

(H7) 


FOUmATlOFS. 


148 

their nests and came to sing ; but in the 
night their songs were silent. Every- 
thing looked so peaceful and happy. Why 
was she dissatisfied and restless ? She could 
not tell . So little knowledge had this young 
girl of that intricate thing — her own heart, 
And Alfred, she had known and loved him 
always. It seemed so wrong to even think 
him changed ; so wrong to feel the want of 
the something which used to make her 
happy, when with him ; so doubting, to 
think he did not care for her as much as 
ever he did. Mrs. Wilson, down-stairs, with 
her husband, talked of their child ; for, with 
the quick divining instinct of a mother’s 
watchful love, she had felt all day the 'ap- 
proaching shadow which she dreaded was 
to shroud Mattie’s glad young heart. “ Only 
for a little while, John, a little while ; surely 
it will not be for long,” she said, in her 
hopeful way, as Mr. Wilson spoke to her of 
his fears for Alfred. 

She did not go to Mattie for an hour 
after Alfred left ; then she softly opened 


FOUNDATIONS. 


149 

the door, asking gently, “ Are you asleep, 
dear.’' Never waiting for a reply, she enter- 
ed, adding, “ What, sitting in the moon- 
light, my little girl !” and then she folded 
Mattie, just as though she were a child 
again, in the loving shelter of her arms. 
Mattie nestled her head down upon her 
mother’s shoulder, weeping out her sorrow 
where she was so sure of sympathy, saying, 
in broken voice, “ I don ’t know why, but 
Alfred seems so changed.” Mrs. Wilson 
soothed her, not with words, but with ten- 
derness, only Avhispering, ere she left her, 
“ Trust, Mattie, where you cannot see ; 
that ’s what faith means, child ; walking 
cheerfully and willingly in the path ^ Our 
Father’ chooses. However rough and dark 
the way may seem now, it will be light, if 
you trust Him, and wait. Alfred is the 
child of many prayers. You know who 
hears and answers prayer ; leave all your 
care with the Lord, and don ’t be afraid to 
tell your Saviour all about your troubles, 
dear, however small they may seem.” Then 

13* 


FOUNDATIONS. 


150 

her mother left her, and Mattie was alone 
again in the moonlight, but her tears had 
given place to a smile ; sadder perhaps to 
look on, than tears, the smile seemed ; 
but better, far better. It was a great com- 
fort to Mattie, the feeling her mother knew 
and sympathized with her, yet after that 
night they did not talk of it again (not for 
long years — then just once — her mother 
murmured, in voice very faint and very 
low, “ Wait, my child, and trust the Lord”). 
In the early morning, Mattie was up as 
was her wont, singing, too, a song sweet 
as the bird’s song of morning praise,” farm- 
er Wilson said ; for though in that night 
of her first real disappointment, the gay 
carol of her free girl-life song had gone 
away, the morning song was none the less 
sweet and peaceful for the new notes it had 
caught. Mrs. Wilson, hearkening to her 
voice, wondered where she found the words, 
never thinking they were just the utterance 
of what her child had been praying, for 
while Mattie’s air - castles had fallen, they 


FOUNDATIONS. 


I5I 

they did not lay in ruins about her ; they 
only helped her to sing ; they only served 
to build the castle of her life into a fairer 
temple ; only aided to star the mosaic work 
with thoughts that were aspirations, and 
that shone like gems, because of her simple, 
trusting faith, that all would be, must be, 
well for her, because all came from her 
Heavenly Father. So she stood in the 
morning sunlight, and folded up, and laid 
away the little ribbons, which, only a day or 
two before, she had chosen with gleeful 
merriment; she held them in her hand a 
minute — the pale blue and the bright scar- 
let — and — she did not cry — she did not 
sigh ; she was no sentimental girl, to brood 
and make sorrow, when God had given her 
so much to make life glad. She only look- 
ed at them again, and said to herself, “I 
think I will wear them no more.” Then 
she sang again in a lower voice, perchance, 
the words she sang before, very simple they 
were, but still a song was Mattie’s. “ Where 
did you find it ?” her mother asked, when 


152 


FOUNDATIONS. 


afterwards coming in from the garden with 
her apron full of flowers, Mrs. Wilson heard 
her repeating the same words. “ Find it,'’ 
Mattie replied, “ why I hardly know and 
she sang once more : 

Leave God to order all thy ways. 

And hope in Him, whate ’er betide ; 

Thou ’It find Him in the evil days 
An all-sufficient strength and guide. 

Who trusts in God’s unchanging love, 

Builds on the Rock that naught can move,” 

* * ♦ 

Only your restless heart keep still. 

And wait in cheerful hope, content 
To take whate ’er His gracious will. 

His all- discerning love hath sent. 

Nor doubt our inmost wants are known. 

To Him who chose us for His own.” 




CHAPTER XVIII. 



FTER those first hours of entering 


Jr^ into full sympathy with her mother’s 
cares, and of knowledge that Alfred had done 
wrong, the unbroken gladness which had sur- 
rounded her life seemed strangely dimmed 
to Gertrude ; for, to a nature like hers, such 
a trial was one of peculiar severity ; one 
which, had her faith been less firmly ground- 
ed, would have shattered it with rude 
shock. Even clinging as she did to the 
promise w'hich bade her “ fear not,” for 
many weeks and months, though she brave- 
ly tried to conceal her pain from her moth- 
er, she was toiling, like those old-time 


( 153 ) 


154 


FOUNDATIONS. 


workers, who, day after day, with weary 
hands, wove in one silken thread after an- 
other, making pictures, while to themselves, 
only the knots and tangles of their thread 
appeared. Sometimes never did those pa- 
tient laborers, who wrought, with softly 
shaded colors, delicate outlines of blended 
hues, rich clusters of flowers, or the gay 
scene of ancient minstrel’s song, behold 
their accomplished task — for they work- 
ed it in from the other side — those wonder- 
ful hangings of gobelin tapestry. And it 
was thus with Gertrude. Her mother, Mary, 
Mattie, Mrs. Wilson, Joe, and old Margaret, 
too, watched her daily growing more gentle 
and loving, reflecting more the spirit of 
the life hid in Christ. And she herself, all 
the time, was unconscious of this; for she 
seemed only working with tangled threads, 
finding so many knotted ends, never once 
thinking the other side was a thing of joy 
and beauty to all who knew and loved her. 
So it often is in this life; we work with the 
threads — we call them tangled — we think 


FOUNDATIONS. 


155 

them such dull, insignificant things, to spend 
our days in laboring over. And yet, the 
“ little things,” would the great ever be 
without them ? Where would be the music 
in the lofty gilded organ, were it not for the 
little reeds? Amid the gloom and smoke 
of London’s crowded city, up towers the 
dome of St. Paul’s with its golden cross. 
What upholds the mighty cathedral ? What 
supports its massive walls ? Far down, out 
of sight, hidden by stone work, overlaid by 
cement and plaster, there lays a stone — the 
corner stone — such a little thing from which 
to begin so great a building. But is ’nt it 
always so ? Even as seeming trifles make 
our days, coming as they do, comfort laden, 
if Ave remember not one is too small for 
Christ to notice ; for the widow’s mite was 
not hidden from Him. The one trembling 
touch of the poor woman mid the throng- 
ing crowd was not unheeded, for of it He 
said, “Who touched me?” And the wo- 
man “ departed in peace.” If, but mindful 
of this comfort, no “ insignificant things” 


FOUNDATIONS. 


156 

are left ; for all may be offerings of praise 
and service to Him who loved us, and 
gave Himself for us.’' 

Mrs. Merwin and Gertrude consulted 
long together ere they decided to tell Mary 
and her husband of the trouble which op- 
pressed them. It seemed so hard, Ger- 
trude said, to shadow the first happy days 
of their life together. But they had to bb 
told, for Alfred’s debts must be paid ; and 
the only way to do this was to raise money 
on the land — the dearest, best loved part of 
all the farm — the meadow-lot, that extended 
over to the hill -side, and the wood -land, 
bounded by the belt of pine-trees. All this 
would not more than suffice to yield the 
needful sum. Through the kindness of a 
friend this was done. The village doctor, 
who had known them all their lives, came 
one morning for a long business-talk with 
Mrs. Merwin. “And he never asked a ques- 
tion as to why mother needed the money,” 
said Gertrude, when she was telling Mary 
of his visit. “ I think it was so kind of him. 


FOUNDATIONS. 


157 

And now mother says that part of the farm 
is no longer really ours, for he holds what 
they call a mortgage on it.” 

It was thus that Alfred was relieved from 
the bondage of debt. All this made no 
very apparent outward change in the home 
life of Mrs. Merwin and her children ; but 
Gertrude and her mother knew the interest 
must be paid ; and, for this, strict economy 
would be needed — the giving up of little 
things they had been wont to call needful, 
but now numbered among luxuries. But 
they never reproached Alfred ; only they 
sent loving, tender letters to him, even more 
frequently than ever before. 

While this business was being accom- 
plished, June had given place to July, and 
July had slided into August, a month, that 
year, of intense heat, unbroken by cooling 
showers ; the sun shone day after day with 
fiery blaze ; the earth was fevered, the 
green grass scorched and yellow ; the 
rippling music of the little brooks and riv- 
ulets was silenced ; the water-springs were 


14 


158 


FOUNDATION. 


thirsty to be filled again ; still the longed-for 
rain came not; the faces of the farmers 
grew sober. A hard year, they said it 
would be ; no ripened grain to garner. So 
the harvest-time came, but the harvesters 
were few. Never before had the farm yield- 
ed so little as that year ; and “ never before 
did we seem to need it so much,” said Mrs. 
Merwin; “but it is all right. Whafi would 
we do without that ‘surety,’ dear?” she 
added, kissing Gertrude, who could not 
keep the tears back, when Joe came in from 
the fields with nevys of fresh disappointment, 
saying, “ I was about confident that ’er 
corn-field would amount to something, but 
the blight has took it along with the rest.” 




CHAPTER XIX. 

G ertrude and Mattie were as in- 
timate that summer as ever before, 
only with one difference — by a tacit con- 
sent they no longer talked of Alfred. It 
was at the close of one of the warmest days 
of August that they wandered off down to- 
wards the woods. As they passed the open 
door of Mary’s cottage, she called to them. 
Where are you going through the heat ?” 
“ In search of a cool place,” answered Mat- 
tie ; “ but I don’t believe we shall find it.” 

On they went, till they came to their old 
seat in the rock-crevice. “No mosses here, 
now, Gertie,” said Mattie. “ See ! they are 

(159) 


I 5q fo unda tions. 

all dry and dead.” Not all, Mattie. Those 
growing on the side, they are still fresh and 
green. Do you remember what you said 
last autumn about the clinging mosses on 
the rock side ? I have thought of it so 
much lately.” 

Yes ; I remember,” replied Mattie. 
“ Only last night I was thinking of it. How 
strangely things, not at all connected, will 
bring other things to one’s mind ! The 
verse in my little ‘ Daily Food’ book recalled 
our talk to me, though I cannot see why. It 
was such a strange verse — ‘And his pillow 
was a stone.’ Tell me, Gertrude, what do 
you think it means — the stone for a pillow ; 
and the dream — a ladder, with angels as- 
cending and descending?” 

“ It was several minutes ere Gertrude 
answered, “ I hardly know, Mattie ; but 
surely it is a very comforting verse. Think 
of it. With only the cold, hard stone for a 
pillow, Jacob slept ; and while he slept, 
there came to him the most blessed typical 
dream of all his life-time. That night was 


FOUJ^DATIOm. 


i6i 


the most wonderful of all the nights ever 
he knew ; for it was then and there he 
heard the voice of the Lord, and hearkened 
to the promise, ‘ Behold I am with thee, 
and will keep thee in all places whither 
thou goest/ Just so I think it is now with 
God’s children mid the night of earthly 
trial. He speaks to them, saying, ‘ Behold 
I am with thee.’ Even from the stony pil- 
low, the ladder of prayer reaches upward, 
whereon the angels ascend with petitions 
and descend with blessings.” Then the girls 
were silent, thinking of their own lives, ap- 
propriating their words and thoughts to 
their ow7t condition, as is the way with the 
young. It takes so long ere we learn to 
look outside of self ; and yet nothing helps 
so quickly towards it as silence,, for medita- 
tion is done in silence ; by it we renounce 
our narrow individuality, and expand into 
that which is infinite.” This sacredness of 
inward silence,” and true communion with 
the invisible, is a far different guide upward 
and onward, than that retrospection and in- 


FOUmATIONS. 


162 

trospection which fills the mind with gloom, 
narrowing the life about its own centre^ 
rather than about the great Central Light 
of Life — Christ. 

How tenderly the “divine depth of si- 
lence ” is revealed in those hushed places 
where the Gospel story points towards the 
hidden treasure, and is still ; those mystical 
chapters, which only lift the veil a very 
little — the veil which hangs on golden cords 
between the now and then, swaying back 
and forth, unfolding the promise of our 
God traced upon it, “ What ye know not 
now, ye shall know hereafter.” “ Eye hath 
not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered 
into the heart of man the things which God 
hath prepared for them that love him.” 

Presently Mattie said, “ It is beautiful, 
is n’t it, Gertie ? to know from everywhere 
this upward-reaching ladder may ascend.” 

Thus, at the close of the day, Gertrude 
and Mattie thought and talked together of 
heavenly things. Almost unlearned they 
were in the full, deep meaning of sorrow, 


FOUNDATIONS, 


163 

yet their trials were very real to them, and 
accomplished just the work for which dis- 
appointment is sent to us all; for whether 
it comes gently and quietly, like the snow 
that falls with no sound, or in wild beating 
storm of sudden fury, it is sent for the same 
purpose, and always, if we search, we shall 
fine the heavenly seal, “ God is love.” The 
shadows which came to these young girls 
did not make them dwell with moody sen- 
timentality, dreaming over their castles fall- 
en to the ground, but served to enlarge 
and dignify their thoughts of life, making 
them more tender and loving, more kind in 
judgment, more pitiful for others’ sorrows, 
and help-giving to all ; (just as pain, if re- 
ceived as sent by “ Our Father,” always 
does). Constantly present with both Ger- 
trude and Mattie, though they never put it 
into words, was the truth, that now was 
their time to do, though it seemed only 
such little services to which they were call- 
ed ; but the waiting for the great— why, it 
Avould be like standing at the pass of By 


FOUKDATIONS. 


164 

and By,” which leads only to the “ valley 
of never.'' Realizing this, Mattie was still 
the gladness of her home, hopeful and 
cheerful, even though the sunshine of her 
heart was shadowed, and she a quieter 
girl than a year ago. But, I am a year 
older, you know, mother,” she would say. 
She did not yield to the pain of thinking of 
what might have been (though self-pity is 
such a tempting thing, sometimes, not only 
to the very young) ; but she was active and 
healthful in spirit, performing her humble 
home duties, finding enjoyment in them, too, 
saying to herself, ‘‘ God will send me glad- 
ness in His own time, and hoAV much I have 
to make me happy and thankful !” 

Gertrude — her castles in the air, they, too, 
were laid low — lower than any one knew, 
for a little note she sent, without saying a 
word — It would only make mother sorry,” 
she thought. The note was but a scrap of a 
thing, and yet, ever so many days it took 
Gertrude to write it, though, after all, it 
was only, “ Please do not think of me any 


FOUNDATIONS. 


I6'5 

more, and do not ask me why.’' So she 
pulled down her own air-castle, for “ sure- 
ly,” she thought, ‘‘ not till the debt is paid, 
could I leave mother ; and that would be so 
long for him to wait.” No answer came to 
her note for many months, but she, through 
all that time, only grew more patient, more 
thoughtful, helping in simple ways, teach- 
ing Bertie and Bessie, thus saving the 
school bills ; patiently cutting and turning 
garment^, laid by as worn-out ; making 
them over, not quite into new ones,” she 
would laughingly say, “ but almost as good, 
aren’t they ?” 

And her outward life, tfiough its tasks 
were so homely, so monotonous, some 
would have thought, was full of fragrance 
and content, because every act sprang from 
a heart where dwelt the longing, that 
“ whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of 
God.” 


13 



CHAPTER XX. 

OW we must leave Gertrude and 



Mattie, spending their days thus, in 
trustful peace, because they committed all 
to God. Those days which passed so quiet- 
ly, little did they think they were freighted 
with riches that would come sailing back 
again — treasures that would never grow 
old — treasures that moth and rust corrupt 
not.” Temples of the living God,” said 
Mattie, as they walked home together from 
the village church, one Sabbath afternoon, 
late in the autumn of that year. “ Ah ! 
Gertrude, no need for us to talk as we used 
to, of castle building and mosaic work, for 
if our hearts be pure and true, then He hath 


(166) 



FOUNDATIONS. 


167 

promised that we shall be ‘ temples of the 
living God ' I will dwell in them and 
walk in them, and I will be their God, and 
they shall be my people ‘ And will be a 
father unto you, and ye shall be my sons 
and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty.’ 
They are verses of such wonderful comfort 
and promise, are n’t they ?” Then for the 
first and only time for years after, Mattie 
spoke of Alfred. Do you remember,” she 
asked, “ the night before Alfred left, that first 
time he went from home, the clouds and 
the rainbow in the sky, Gertie ? There 
would have been no rainbow, without the 
clouds, would there? And the bow is a 
promise.” That was all she said, but it re- 
vealed to Gertrude the secret of Mattie’s 
smiles and tranquillity. Gertrude’s reply 
was only to the first part of Mattie’s sen- 
tence : ‘‘ Yes, it is a wonderful verse, yet it 
makes us no less builders, I think, for it 
transforms us, even while here^ into ^fellow- 
workers with Him, with whom we are 
‘joint heirs.’ ” 


FOUNDATIOm. 


1 68 

The mothers watched their children, pass- 
ing out of girlhood into womanhood, with 
the same calm trust that filled their young 
hearts, for their foundation was the same, 
— even Christ. Day by day, Mrs. Merwin 
saw Mary ripening into all her heart de- 
sired she should become, as a good wife, 
a help-meet’’ (Mrs. Merwin clung to the 
old-fashioned word) to her husband ; as a 
gentle, loving mother, for as the years came 
and went, the sound of baby laughter, the 
patter of children’s feet, made music in the 
cottage home. And Alfred — she watched 
him too, with tender mother-love, waiting 
for the time (though it tarried so long) 
when his master would no longer be ambi- 
tion — when no longer he would strive to 
make himself worthy^ but would come home 
to her, ^‘clothed, and in his right mind,” 
through no merit of his own strength! s win- 
ning, but because he had found Christ — 
All and in all.” 


PAET II. 


“ We search the world for truth ; we cull 
The good, the pure, the beautifud 
From graven stone and written scroll, 
From all old flower-fields of the soul ; 
And, weary seekers of the best. 

We come back laden from our quest. 

To find thai all the sages said 
Is in the Book our mothers read. 

And all our treasure of old thought. 

In His harmonious fullness wrought 
Who gathers in one sheaf complete 
The scattered blades of God's sown wheat. 
The common growth that maketh good 
His all-embracing Fatherhood.'’'* 


Whittier. 



CHAPTER 1. 

M any years have gone by since our 
story began — years that seemed so 
long, looked forward to — so short, looked 
back upon. Great changes had they brought 

to the quiet village of H . The old 

meeting-house, with its. white walls, straight 
high -backed seats, square pews, and un- 
shaded windows, through which the light 
shone in broad sunbeams, had given place 
to a modern church,” where sunlight fell 
in tempered, mellowed rays, through the 
stained glass of arched windows ; where the 
walls were of sober, softened tints, the pulpit 
no longer a desk of harsh outlines and sharp 

(171) 



FOUNDATIONS. 


172 

corners, but a thing of graceful gothic 
structure, with warm crimson hangings of 
velvet. But though the outward building 
was so altered, the inward spirit was the 
same, for still its seal was, Holiness be- 
longeth unto thee, oh Lord,” and its call, 
“ Let him that heareth come, and whoso- 
ever will, let him come, and take of the 
water of life freely,” for, This is a faithful 
saying, and v^orthy of all acceptation, Jesus 
Christ came into the world to save sin- 
ners.” 

Other changes there were, too. New 
homes had sprung up, nestling closer than 
had been their wont, together. The one 
long, shady street, that ran through the vil- 
lage, now turned off here, opened out there, 
into other streets almost as long. Bay 
windows and French roofs, had found their 
way, even into that retired place. Still the 

old stone house” was unaltered, at least 
in external appearance. The sitting room, 
too, had lost none of the comfort air which 
belonged to it in by-gone days, though one 


FOUWDATlOyS. 


173 

would hardly have recognized its inmates 
as the same, looking in upon them one au- 
tumn afternoon, twenty years or more af- 
ter Alfred Merwin first left home. An old 
lady with snowy white hair and peaceful 
look, is sitting on a low chair, before the 
warm sparkling wood fire — a calm, quiet 
old lady, that makes one think of “ resf* as 
very near. By her side lay the soft ball of 
wool, and shining needles of her knitting 
work — tiny socks for infant feet ; but her 
hands are idle now, while her thoughts are 
busy thinking of the Past. She must have 
shpped away from the Present^ and then 
must have glided onward to the Future; 
for a smile lit up the old face, so peaceful, 
albeit, it was furrowed by lines of time and 
care. Which leave the deepest marks on the 
face of the aged ? The smile reveals to us 
the old lady as none other than Mrs. Mer- 
win. Can that tall, slender young woman, 
walking to and fro, quieting, with low-voiced 
lullaby, the restless little one, whose head is 
pillowed on her shoulder, be Bessie ? Such 

15* 


FOUNDATIONS. 


m 

a restless, playful little one, who lifts his 
curly head, stretching" out his tiny hands in 
welcome to the stranger who enters the 
room, (stranger to us, but not to baby,) 
making baby music, the cooing sound of 
gladness, that heralds the first half-uttered 
word. 

He who sits over by the table drawn close 
up to the window to secure the little remain- 
ing light of the day, bending over books and 
papers, must be Bertie ; “ the scholar of the 
family,’’ they call him. Only these two 
left at home, Bertie and Bessie, my young- 
est ; the rest of my children have gone out 
and made nests of their own,” Mrs. Merwin 
used to tell her new neighbors. Mary, 
not far off, for the cottage, added to on 
one side, was still her home, and she the 
queen of it, ruling, with gentle sway, the 
tall sons and graceful daughters growing 
up around her ; a happy woman, whose 
children called her blessed,” and in whom 

the heart of her husband safely trusted.” 

And Gertrude — how had the years dealt 


FOUNDATIONS. 


175 


with her? Where was she? Many miles 
away, making glad a home of her own, with 
happiness which was no transitory blossom, 
but a plant of perpetual bloom and fruit, 
because it flourished in the soil watered by 
the graces of the Spirit.” Often she ask- 
ed herself, would all this mid-day calm have 
been, without the morning storms, without 
those early trials, when she learned sym- 
pathy for others, patient waiting and trust 
in Him who giveth or withholdeth in 
love” And her answer was always, “ Thailk 
God for the rainy as well as the sunshiny 
days.” It was years now since she was 
crowned a happy wife, for the answer came 
to the little note which had caused such 
pain in the writing, and her happiness and 
content since then had been almost un- 
broken. Anxieties had come, as they come 
to all, when the life - barque is pushed off 
from the home-haven of childhood. ^^But 
the anxieties are always shared with my 
husband” — so she wrote her mother — and 
they only serve to make us love and cling 


j^5 FOUNDATIONS. 

to one another more. Sometimes we think 
our lives almost care-free, so peacefully our 
days have come and gone all these years 
through.” 

Thinking of all her children, was Mrs. 
Merwin, as she sat in the twilight ; but her 
thoughts lingered longest about those most 
widely - separated from her, Gertrude and 
Alfred — Alfred, whose birthnight it was (a 
middle-aged man now), though his mother 
still called him her boy.” Five years had 
gone since he had been home. Always he 
was coming, but so many little things pre- 
vented,” his letters said. Singularly pros- 
perous; wonderfully successful! — ^that was 
the world’s verdict, looking on Alfred Mer- 
win’s life. 

Long years ago he had paid the last of 
the debt, the memory of which never left 
him, because with it he had lost that which 
money cannot buy — his unblemished self- 
respect. ‘‘ A lucky fellow,” he was called by 
the young friends with whom he started in 
life; a generous man, who gave with no 


FOUNDATIOm 


177 

sparing hand ; whose name was on every 
subscription-list; benevolent and perfectly 
moral ; — thus he ranked in the estimation of 
others. Was he happy? Was he content? 
Or, was the restless heart still there ? — the 
bitter cry, I will make myself worthy ” ? 
It was long since his mother had asked 
these questions ; but well she knew he 
never would be really satisfied till, like a 
little child, he sat at the Master’s feet, learn- 
ing of Him. And, though her heart was 
not unlearned in the command, “ Possess 
)^our soul in patience,” a sigh was in the 
words she murmured to herself, “ I am 
waiting yet — waiting a little longer, till my 
boy comes home. The tarrying-time seems 
long, but,” — and the sigh changed into a 
smile, He is faithful who hath promised.” 

Then Mrs. Merwin’s thoughts wandered 
to Mattie, who was so shielded in her young 
days from trouble, and who had known so 
much of sorrow since ; for scarcely had her 
girlhood gone when the call which summon- 
ed her father from earth came; and only 


FOUNDATIONS. 


178 

a few months later, the angel, with beckon- 
ing, up ward - pointing hand, entered their 
home again, and looked upon her mother ; 
and Mattie was an orphan. After that, the 
red house was sold ; the great elm-tree cut 
down ; “the place remodelled,'' till all traces 
of its past seemed gone. 

Mrs. Merwin urged Mattie to come to 
her; but “No," was her answer ; “there is 
work for me to do up among the moun- 
tains, where my uncle lives, and where he 
has offered me a ‘ home. ’ " So she went. 
Since that they saw her but seldom. “ I am 
not brave," she wrote ; “ it is better not to 
come where everything is a memory." 
Bessie often wondered “ why Mattie never 
married." “ Perhaps she will, some day," 
Mrs. Merwin would reply ; but the “ some 
day" had not yet come, and Mattie was 
growing old. Still the light had not gone 
from her eyes ; still the dark hair stole in 
clustering ringlets about her forehead, and 
the dimpled mouth had not forgotten to 
smile, even though there had been so much 


FOmBATIOm. 


179 

to drive smiles away. But better than all 
this, the Christian faith of her young life 
had grown clearer and brighter with every 
passing year, making her more loving and 
more loved by all. “ She is always giving 
something — kind words or kind deeds,” said 
the children in her uncle’s home. So her 
days passed. Now and then, when she 
turned the backward leaves of her “ life- 
book,” she would whisper to herself her 
mother’s words, Wait — only wait, Mattie, 
and trust.” And she waited. But not often 
did she think thus, for onward, not back- 
ward, she strove to look ; outward, not in- 
ward. 




CHAPTER 11. 

HAT evening, when his mother sat in 



X the old -familiar room, thinking of 
him on his birthnight, Alfred’s thoughts, 
too, were of his childhood. It was towards 
the close of the day, when he returned to 
his home. He lingered for a moment on 
the door-step, listening, he could not tell 
why, to what hardly won the name of 
music, for the sound which held him almost 
spell-bound was only the old tune Mattie 
used to sing of ^‘Annie Laurie,” which, hour 
after hour, the one-armed soldier-boy, with 
monotonous turn of the hand, ground out 
of his weather-beaten organ, just at the 


(i8o) 


FO UNDA TIONS. i g i 

same street corner which Alfred passed 
morning and evening. What was it made 
him stop now ? What was it in the music, 
that autumn day, that touched him? Was 
it what it made him forget? Or, what it 
made him remember ? Presently he opened 
the door, saying to himself, I am tired to- 
night.” Turning to the servant awaiting his 
orders, he added, Do not come to me till 
I ring.” From the hall he passed into an 
adjoining room — a luxurious room, with 
shelves and book-cases almost filling one 
side. At the far end of the room was an 
open fire-place, which sent forth a cheerful 
blaze of light. Drawing the massive arm- 
chair, with its soft cushions of velvet, before 
the fire, Alfred seated himself, folding his 
hands, never turning a leaf of the many 
volumes which filled the table near him. 

I will rest,” he said. I am weary 
from my walk.” Long he sat thus; so 
long, the twilight faded ; darkness crept 
over the city ; the fire burned low ; its light 
grew dim ; still he was motionless ; back- 
16 


i 82 


FOUNDATION. 


ward his thoughts had wandered. Again 
he was a child — a happy child ; he heard 
his mother’s voice ; it was the time of even- 
ing prayer, and his mother read, God so 
loved the world. He gave His only begotten 
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him might 
not perish, but have everlasting life.” He 
heard his sisters softly singing the evening 
hymn : 

“ Nothing in my hand I bring. 

Simply to thy cross I cling.” 

Then memory carried him on from child- 
hood, and he was a youth, leaving his 
mother’s home. Recollections of the dark- 
ness of his wanderings came ; but he push- 
ed these memories away from him, striving 
to think of his manhood and prosperity. 
Still, close beside him, even as it had been 
near the child, very near the young man, a 
shadow ever walked — the shadow of a rest- 
less heart. Thus his life stretched before 
him, as he said, “ It is my birthnight. My 
mother is thinking of me.” 


FO TJNBA TIONS. j g ^ 

Had the wind risen ? Was it the echo of 
the street music, that made a sound in that 
quiet room ? Or, was it Alfred sighing as 
he looked backward, that wakened the 
moan, never very long silent, since Solo- 
mon the king, the wise man, uttered the 
dirge of earthly satisfaction, which, repeat- 
ed by thousands of weary hearts, has come 
down through the ages, “ Vanity of vani- 
ties — all is vanity!” With the sigh, Al- 
fred's face grew older ; the lingering rays of 
light faded from the gilded picture frames ; 
the rosy glow passed from the room ; the 
fire had gone out. And then came hours 
which cannot be framed into words ; for 
who can approach to unveil those holy 
times, when the soul is alone with God ; 
those “ still hours,” from which we come 
forth with changed thoughts and aims for 
life ; with different hopes, too ; come forth 
like little children (who have been hearken- 
ing to sweet music, faint, low music, like 
the rippling of water on ocean beach when 
the summer night is calm), smiling, because. 


FOUNDATIONS. 


184 

in our hearts, marred though they are by 
sin, wearied by disappointment and the 
rude tossings of this earthly life, there is 
murmuring the peace which “ floweth as a 
river,” proclaiming sin pardoned for Christ’s 
sake ! It was thus with Alfred Merwin that 
September night; none knew the heart- 
struggle it cost, ere he, the proud, strong 
man, who had for years striven to make self 
worthy, bowed and accepted the gift of 
God.” None knew the conflict of those 
hours, when the. night passed out of his 
soul and he found the day dawn. Only the 
dawn, for, like Saul praying in the house 
of Judas at Damascus, Alfred was still sor- 
rowful, still in the half- dark. But he 
prayed” the trembling, anxious prayer, 
“ Lord, I believe, help thorn my unbelief.” 
And the Father had compassion” — com- 
passion, even though for so long the great- 
ness of His forgiving love had been slight- 
ed and forgotten. 

Toward morning Alfred slept ; and in his 
sleep he dreamed that the angels came with 


FOUNDATIONS. 


185 

his birthday gift — “ the angels who shine 
and burn with thoughts and desires, of how 
God can be praised, peace be on earth, 
and all men be of good heart and mind.” 
Softly they seemed to whisper, “ What gift 
hast thou to offer to Him who hast done all 
for thee! only thy heart the Saviour asks.” 



16* 



CHAPTER III. 

W HEN into the stately room the 
morning sunlight shone, revealing 
the tokens of Alfred's wealth, the evidences 
of his learning, all found worthless to win 
the “ unspeakable gift,” again he prayed ; 
and, as in music, the key note which rules 
the strain, closes it, so the morning caught 
the echo of his evening thoughts, caught 
the echo of his mother’s prayer, the sound 
of the hymn his sisters sang — 

“ Nothing in thy hand need ’st bring. 

Only come.*’ 

And he came. ^ 

Later in the day, Alfred sought his old 

(i86) 



FOUNDATIONS. 


187 

friend, Mr. Burnham, oppressed (even mid 
the peace which filled his heart) by thoughts 
of the by -gone years, wasted in building 
on the sand. His soul was sorrow-stricken, 
that for so long he had staid away from 
Christ, whose promises of love and par- 
don were so full and free. Thinking of 
self, he felt all unfit to accept them as 
meant for him. It was this he told Mr. 
Burnham, who, in reply, asked, “ Do you 
know the mute language of those voice- 
less people, who express their hearts’ joy 
and sorrow by signs? When they pray, 
they lift the hand upward, and looking at 
it, they point to the palm, where the nail 
pierced, in sign of the * blood shed ; and 
bowing the head, lowering the hand quick- 
ly, they pass the one over the other .in 
token of sin washed away in His blood. 
And when burdened with the weight of 
their own sinfulness, they take the Bible, 
and with eager haste, J:urn the leaves, rest- 
ing their finger on the words which tell of 
the debtors whose debts were of such dif- 


i88 


FOUJWATIOm. 


ferent magnitude, but of whom it is writ- 
ten, ‘ When they had nothing to pay He 
frankly forgave them both/ All you have 
to do, Alfred, is to receive this full forgive- 
ness promised by the Heavenly Father, 
because Christ loved you and gave Him- 
self for you. Trusting Jesus, your salva- 
tion is sure, and though all unworthy of the 
blessing, you may, with confidence, ask 
Him to ‘ fill you with joy and peace in be- 
lieving.’ ” 




CHAPTER IV. 

O ctober, the month of brilliant col- 
or, had almost gone, “ pouring more 
glory on the autumn woods,” touching the 
maple leaves into shining gold and crimson 
beauty, the rugged oaks into deep brown 
and richly dyed red ; the vines were bending 
beneath their wealth of ripened fruit ; the 
orchards crowned with rosy - cheeked ap- 
ples, golden pippins and rusty coats.” 
Over all, the mellow light of the sun shone. 
It was “ the Indian summer,” the farmers 
said. The day was very still ; the men 
were off in the fields at work ; Bessie had 
gone with baby over to Mary’s, where Ger- 
trude was staying for a week or two. Mrs. 

(189) 


190 


FOUNDATIONS. 


Merwin was alone ; but surely she heard a 
footfall coming near — up the garden walk — 
pausing on the door -step. Why did she 
start ? Why did the old hands tremble ? — 
the face whose calm was wont to be so un- 
broken, quiver with expectation ? — the 
voice, always tranquil, thrill with eagerness, 
as she exclaimed, ‘‘It is my boy — come 
home at last.” Yes, it was her boy. Into 
the room came Alfred — the man of middle 
age ; down by his mother’s side he knelt — 
low he bowed his head — broken words he 
uttered — and in the mother’s heart was 
great joy, as softly she whispered, “ For 
this my son was dead, and is alive ; he was 
lost, and he is found.” 

That evening, in the old stone house, they 
sang the hymn again : 

'‘ Nothing in my hand I bring. 

Simply to thy cross I cling.” 

The mother sang, in voice grown feeble 
from age; Mary in notes of softened ear- 
nestness; Gertrude in sweet tenor tone; 


FOUNDATIONS, 


I9I 

Bertie and Bessie, they all joined in, but no 
voice was gladder, though none so tremul- 
ous, as Alfred’s. 

“ They can all sing it now — all my chil- 
dren the mother sard. 

“Trust in the Lord, and verily ye shall 
be fed.” This, in the quiet hours of the 
night, often they heard Mrs. Merwin saying 
to herself, adding, “ My boy has come 
home — has come to the Father’s house — 
has come to Christ — is building on the 
Rock.” Then she slept; but, in her sleep 
she murmured, “ My boy is safe — ‘ the Lord 
is mindful of his own.’ ” 




CHAPTER V. 

O NE more look into the old sitting- 
room, and our story is ended. 

They had not wreathed it with flowers, 
as they did for Mary’s bridal ; but branches 
of the autumn leaves they had brought, and 
the sunshine was about everything, as then. 

There they stood together — Alfred and 
Mattie — with hearts as warm and full of 
love and gratitude as ever they could have 
been in the days of their early youth. And 
the pastor, just as tender was he as on Ma- 
ry’s wedding-day, while he said the words 
which joined those lives so long separated. 

An hour later, toward the sunset-time, 
they too passed down the garden walk, 

(192) 


FOUNDATIONS. 


193 

through the little gate; and Mattie, in a 
voice from which no music had flown with 
the passing years, pointed upward, saying, 
'^Alfred, the clouds, they were in the east ; 
and the rainbow - promise, it caught its 
brightness from the western sky — do you 
remember? — westward where no clouds 
were.” 

Gertrude and her mother stood together 
on the door-step watching them. “ Castle- 
builders,” said Gertrude — “that was what 
we called ourselves in the girl days; but 
what have we built? Nothing in our own 
strength.” Then she stole her hand into 
her mother’s, just as had been her wont 
when a little child, and softly whispered, 
“ For, ‘ Except the Lord build the house, 
they labor in vain that build it ;” and 
^ Other foundation can no man lay than that 
is laid — which is Jesus Christ.’ ” 

“ Complete in Thee ! No work of mine 
May take, dear Lord, the place of thine ; 

Thy blood has pardon bought for me. 

And I am now complete in Thee.’’ 

17 


194 


FOUNDATIONS. 


Complete in Thee — no more shall sin 
Thy grace has conquered, reign within ; 
Thy voice will bid the tempter flee, 

And I shall stand complete in Thee. 

“ Complete in Thee — each want supplied, 
And no good thing to me denied : 

Since thou, my portion. Lord, will be, 

I ask no more — complete in Thee.” 


>■ 



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